


Good Night, Sleep Tight (Don't Let the Plot Bunnies Bite)

by WhatEvenAmI



Series: Beware the Killer Rabbits [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Anxiety, Avengers Family, Avengers Tower, Baseball, Bed-Wetting, Blow Jobs, Board Games, Bubble Bath, Bucky Bear - Freeform, Cuddling & Snuggling, Cute, Daddy Kink, Dammit Westfahl, Depression, Diapers, Embarrassment, Fear, Feels, Flashbacks, Frottage, Guilt, Hand Jobs, Hugging, Insomnia, Intercrural Sex, Kissing, Knitting, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Mental Institutions, Nightmares, Non-Sexual Age Play, Orgasm Delay, POV Multiple, Panic Attacks, Past Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, Platonic Cuddling, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Pepper Potts, Protective Steve, Protective Steve Rogers, Regression, Scrabble, Self-Flagellation, Shame, Sharing a Bed, Shyness, Storytelling, Teddy Bears, Tickling, Trauma, Waxing, alexander pierce should have died slower, self-care
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-24
Updated: 2017-07-20
Packaged: 2018-04-05 21:21:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 24
Words: 76,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4195374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhatEvenAmI/pseuds/WhatEvenAmI
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A few miscellaneous plot bunnies written for the series <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/series/114886">Alexander Pierce should have died slower</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Miscellaneous

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lauralot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lauralot/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Little Interludes](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3705493) by [Lauralot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lauralot/pseuds/Lauralot). 



> Could not for the life of me figure out what to title this. 
> 
> Short stories are not in chronological order.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some cute, some creepiness, some feels, some Hello Kitty hair clips.

Explosions and crashing and ice-cold water bring him awake with a sharp intake of breath.

Then he gasps again, because his door’s wide open and there’s a tall dark figure silhouetted against the rectangle of light. “What the—Bucky?”

“M’sorry!” He sounds very young and very scared; his voice quavers as he adds, “I didn’t mean to wake you up.”

“It’s okay, honey, what do you need?”

Bucky grabs onto the doorframe and ducks behind it. “I was just checking,” he mumbles. “I—JARVIS said everyone was okay but I thought I—I thought I might’ve—”

“Come here,” Steve says softly, realizing. “It’s okay. Come on. You want a hug?”

As soon as he says it Bucky’s on the bed, wrapping him tight in trembling arms. “It’s okay,” Steve repeats, hugging back. “We’re all okay. It’s safe here, I’ve got you.”

His hair is wet, soaking a patch into Steve’s T-shirt. He must have been terrified, really unsure if it _had_ just been a dream; usually a long shower will get him calmed right down.

“I thought I—I thought—” Bucky’s hyperventilating, working himself up, “I’m really sorry, Daddy! I—”

“Shhh. It’s okay, I promise. Listen to me, okay? And just try and breathe.” He _is_ trying, but it sounds all shaky and Steve can feel the wheeze of his lungs against his own chest. It’s terrifying; it feels like his friend is dying.

Is this how it felt for Bucky when he used to have his asthma attacks? No wonder he worried so much.

“It’s not your fault,” he whispers, “I know you don’t feel good, but it’s not your fault at all.”

“But in my dream,” Bucky whispers, “I—I did something really bad—I’m sorry.”

“You’re okay. It wasn't real.”

“It _felt_ really real,” Bucky sniffles.

“I know, Buck. I bet that didn’t feel very good. But you’re here with me now, okay?”

They’re silent for a while, Steve rocking his friend and stroking his damp hair. Gradually his breathing steadies.

“Daddy?” he says in a small voice, “Can you tell me a story?”

For a minute Steve’s insides burn as he hears _but before that, he was asking for a different story. He said it was the one Pierce always told, about a little boy whose friend made trouble for everybody, and made the little boy lose his arm._

For a split second it occurs to him that he could change that story, change it so that—

He’s sick with himself for even thinking it. He wants nothing to do with Pierce's twisted games. 

“Once…” he clears his throat, “There was a boy who went to the zoo. There were lots of animals there, there were…”

“Flamingos and bears,” Bucky whispers, settling himself back on the pillows. “An’ red pandas…”

“That’s right,” Steve says, struck by inspiration, “There were red pandas who got into all kinds of mischief when the zoo was closed up for the day.”

He lays back down next to Bucky and tells him stories full of mischievous animals breaking out of their cages to play at night, stealing popcorn and soda from the concession stands and playing jump-rope with the snakes. He stops talking when he realizes Bucky’s fallen asleep against his shoulder.

In the dark stillness, his own dreams come rushing back, but Bucky’s breathing softly against his ear and he’s safe. He’s okay. He’s here.

Steve pulls the covers up over them both, trying to banish the image of Bucky falling away against snow-brushed white…

“You know what?” he murmurs to his sleeping friend, “I’m sorry, too.”

*

You’re not supposed to catch the ball.

Kaley remembers that’s what the guide said when Dad took her to the stadium tour. If a foul ball comes your way, you duck, because it can be moving at more than a hundred miles an hour. Kaley doesn’t know what that can do—maybe kill you?—it would really, really hurt, anyway.

You’re supposed to duck and pick it up off the ground and then just tell everyone you caught it, but the ball really is coming at her and she didn’t believe it would actually happen and she can’t think, there’s no time to do anything, she shuts her eyes tight and braces herself for—

_Clang._

Nothing hits her or breaks her and she definitely feels still alive. She opens her eyes and blinks because there’s a shiny metal hand right in front of her face. A shiny metal hand holding a baseball.

Her breathing feels all shaky, because of the hand, which is scary even though it’s also kind of cool, and because she thinks she might have almost just got killed with a baseball.

“Thanks,” she says to the metal-hand person, _thinking are you a robot_ and _thank you so so much_ and _please don’t kill me_.

“No problem.” He _sounds_ friendly, and not like a robot at all, so she risks looking up. He’s really big and maybe a little scary, but he doesn’t _look_ mean. Mom would say he needs a haircut, though. He’s got his bangs all in his face. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” she says even though she kind of still feels like she might fall down. She wants to know where he got the arm, but you’re not supposed to ask people that if they have missing body parts. He looks a little familiar, maybe like someone she’s seen on TV or something.

“Here,” he says, “you can have this if you want it.” And he holds out the baseball.

Kaley’s breath catches. People never do that, not even for kids. She’s been trying to get a ball for two years now and every time, everyone wants to keep it for themselves. She’s even seen grown-ups take a ball out of a kid’s hands, which almost made her cry.

The metal fingers are super cold against hers and she can’t stop staring at the hand. “Thanks,” she says again, “Thank you so much, really.” And she’s really, really always wanted this and she wishes she had something to give him, but all she has in her pocket—

“Hey!” He jumps a little. Oops. She didn’t mean to startle him. “Do you want these? ‘Cause you gave me the baseball. And they’ll keep your hair out of your face so you can see the game better.” She already feels stupid. He’s a grown-up and a man; he won’t want her Hello Kitty barrettes.

But then he smiles and it’s not a laughing-at-you kind of smile. “Thanks,” he says, “I wouldn’t want to take—if you’re sure, I mean.”

“It’s fine! I have lots more!” She drops the hair clips into the metal hand, which isn’t really all that scary anymore.

And it makes her really happy that he actually puts the barrettes in his hair. Lots of grown-ups don’t really like the stuff you give them; they just say so to be nice, and then they put it away and never take it out again. But he brushes his bangs back and sticks Hello Kitty up on his head, using the metal hand like a mirror, which makes Kaley laugh.

She gives him a thumbs-up with the hand not holding the baseball, and he gives her one with the hand made of metal.

Then she waves goodbye so she can go look for Dad.

He’s never going to believe her, darn it, he left for two minutes to go to the bathroom and he missed the maybe-on-TV guy with the awesome metal arm saving her from possibly getting killed with a baseball, which, now that she thinks about it, would have been a really stupid way to die.

*

Tonight, Steve’s packing up a backpack for Bucky, taking care of him just like any other night. Tomorrow, his friend’s sentence will be determined. Tomorrow, they'll walk out of the courtroom freely or he will fight the jury's sorry asses and get the hell out of there with Bucky in tow.

There are no other options. He’s not failing his friend yet again.

The bathroom door cracks open. It takes Bucky a moment to come out, shuffling and self-conscious. “Daddy? Can...” he wavers, cheeks reddening, “...can you tell?”

Steve looks him over. “No, buddy, you’re all set.” The box does bear the promise that this brand is discreet, though even if anyone could tell what Bucky has on under his pajama bottoms, no one would ever point it out. “C’mon, let me show you what’s in your pack.”

The backpack is designed to look like his shield, and when Clint first brought it home, Bucky hadn’t put it down for two weeks straight. The sight had made Steve grin like a damn idiot.

“Look,” he says, “Here’s a water bottle. Toothbrush, and your meds for tomorrow morning. I put in a book, if you can’t get to sleep. And there’s a couple more of these, just in case.” Bucky’s face goes red again, and Steve quickly moves along.

“Here’s a honey packet in case Bucky Bear gets hungry. And in case _you_ get hungry…”

He reaches down into the secret compartment and pulls out the ziploc bag. It’s filled with peanut butter cookies with chocolate chips and butterscotch, the one thing Bucky never has any trouble eating.

Steve smiles a little and puts his finger to his lips; Bucky’s not supposed to have food during his designated sleeping time, but the poor guy needs the reminder that he's got people on his side. The rules can be bent just this once. 

“Thanks, Daddy.” And then he’s holding onto Steve, shaking.

“Hey,” Steve says softly, “what’s the matter?” It can be so hard to know, with him. And with the trial going on, everything is the matter.

“What if...what if they do say I have to get taken away?”

This again. He can't keep it off his mind. Steve hugs him tightly, trying so hard to squeeze the fear right out of him. “I won’t let them. You’re not going to prison.”

“But…” Bucky hesitates, always so scared of talking back.

“Yeah? It’s all right, honey.” Steve encourages.

“What if they do say it? Who’s gonna—who’s gonna take care of me and—give me cookies and n-not get mad when—”

He breaks off, sniffling. Steve wishes he could just tell Bucky they have a plan, one that doesn’t involve anyone ending up behind bars.

But Bucky would just panic about dragging the rest of them down, about getting the others into trouble. He doesn’t think he deserves their protection.

“Shh. I know you’re scared. Breathe, okay? Count of ten.” Bucky tries a few shuddering breaths.  

“I’m not letting them take you away. I’m so sorry you had to go through this. It’s almost over. It’s almost over and I promise I won’t let them get you.” Steve is still squeezing tightly, the words playing over and over in his head. _I promise I won’t let them get you. I’m not letting them take you away_. 

It’s not fair. It’s just not Bucky’s fault, not any of it. And, damn it, after all they’ve put his friend through, they had better not declare him guilty. Those bastards accusing him, they don’t know what the hell they’re talking about. They have no clue. It could have been them, any of them, he'd like to see them try and withstand a fraction of what Bucky's endured. And they sit there nice and safe while Bucky keeps on paying and paying the price for—

“What’s taking so long?” Tasha bangs on the door, “C'mon!”

“Just a minute,” Bucky calls shakily, slipping the backpack onto his back. He starts scooping his bears into his arms.

“You want any help with that?” Bears are spilling over onto the bed.

“I think I can get them,” Bucky says, “I have to take them with me or they might get lonely.”

He looks so earnest, fumbling with his armload of teddy bears. Steve smiles and ruffles Bucky’s hair. “Night. Love you, buddy.”

Then he leaves, letting an impatient Tasha into the room.

He has to go talk to Tony about backup transport in case they need to get out of there in a hurry. They’re not allowed weapons in the courtroom, but Natasha's going to try to get something by security. Something loaded with tranqs, they’ve agreed, so that no one dies. Tony’s trying to figure out a way to conceal his shield and…

Hell. They have one more day before they may all be wanted by the U.S. government. Steve thinks about going to Tasha’s room to read Bucky a good-night story—he does it every night, and he just realized he forgot—but JARVIS reports that his friend is already fast asleep.

 *****

He’s done really well on this mission, Daddy says, but even so, they can’t play their special games right now. Daddy’s waiting on a super important phone call.

But even though Daddy’s really busy with a whole bunch of stuff, he’s still taking the time to play with him while they wait. That makes him go all warm inside even though he’s not very good at this game.

It’s a big board with lots of little squares. The squares have letters and you use them to make words. Some letters or spots have extra points, and whoever has the most points at the end is the winner. Usually he’s pretty good at mind games, but when he’s not being an asset he can’t read as well and Daddy knows more words than he does.

He was nervous to spell _am ō_because that’s Latin and Daddy might be mad if he cheated, but it made Daddy smile and lean over to pat his head, so he got to keep _am ō. _He also has _hello_ , but Daddy has a lot more words on the board.

He stares down at his letters and tries not to let his eyes go blurry. That would be really bad. He should be grateful Daddy’s playing games with him at all when he’s got so much important stuff to do, but this game is so _hard_ and he’s already had to skip three turns. It isn’t _fair_.

He shrugs instead of saying "skip" because he doesn’t think he can talk without getting upset and he doesn’t want to be punished. Or for Daddy to decide he can’t handle this game, and send him away to be alone.

But then Daddy scoots over next to him and wraps an arm around his shoulders and that makes him feel a lot calmer. “Want a little help?”

“Thank you, Daddy,” he whispers. They look at his letters together. “Hmm. You have the _J_. That could be a lot of points.” He taps the board. “You can make _jump_ , see?”

Now he does. His face goes hot for not seeing that before; he was getting all upset when the word was right in front of him. It’s not like _jump_ is even hard.

Daddy puts his tiles down for him and then he takes a turn. His word is _green_. “There’s a man that turns all green sometimes, did you know that?”

“Really, Daddy?” He doesn’t know if that’s true; it seems more like a story. Sometimes Daddy makes up stories just for him.

“When he turns green he gets really strong. He’s got lots and lots of muscles.” Daddy’s hand is sliding up under his shirt, squeezing his tummy a little. It tickles and he squirms, but carefully so Daddy won’t get hurt. When it’s his turn again Daddy keeps moving his hand in slow circles, which helps him stay calm even though he can't figure out any words.

A few turns later he finally gets one he can do without any help. “Look!” he says, and spells out _daddy_.

Then Daddy’s pulling him close, tickling his tummy and kissing him all over his face. He’s squirming and giggling, happy because he finally figured out a word himself and because he made Daddy smile.

That’s when the phone rings. He almost sighs in frustration when Daddy has to answer it, but that would be rude and really ungrateful, so he closes his mouth.

While he talks, Daddy pulls him close. He rests his head against Daddy’s shoulder and lets him keep petting up and down his tummy and his chest. Sometimes Daddy’s hand goes a little lower and he has to be careful not to jump.

He doesn’t really understand what the phone call is all about. That’s all grown-up stuff. It sounds like there are lots of voices on the other end of the line. Daddy whispers that they’re very important people from all over the world and he needs to be a really quiet, really good little boy right now. So his lips are sealed, _zip._

“I understand that, Agent Hill, and that’s why I’ve made the decision that…” Daddy’s hand slides back down again, this time under his waistband. It’s really tickly and he has to work hard to keep quiet.

He spells out words on the board as he waits, and while the other people are speaking Daddy reads over his shoulder and kisses his hair. His hand is still moving around beneath his waistband.

Then there’s an odd, squeezing kind of feeling deep in his tummy as Daddy rubs him harder and faster under his pants. He thought the grown-up games had to wait till the phone call was done, but he stays quiet because it would be bad of him to argue. And anyway, those other people aren’t meant to know he’s here. He has to be a secret. He pushes his face down against Daddy’s shirt to hide the little noises he can’t help making.

Then he's really tensing up because Daddy's fingertips have found a super sensitive spot but he's still got his pants on. If he lets go now he'll make a mess. Daddy might get mad about that, might rub it in his face, he thinks nervously, though he's not quite sure where that thought comes from. He wraps his fist up in Daddy's shirt and breathes deep, trying to hold on.

Then Daddy is saying, “Thank you all very much for your time. You’ll certainly be kept informed of any future developments. We’ll speak again soon. Yes, thank you. Good-bye, now.”

He hangs up the phone and turns to his boy, a smile spreading over his face. “You’ve been so patient for Daddy today,” he says, “You’ve been _such_ a good boy.” And that makes his insides go warm again.

He raises his head as Daddy plants another big kiss on his cheek. “Come on, Little One. Now we can play.”

*

It's just his damn luck to get a fractured collarbone right before a Level Five alert. He’s not officially cleared to go on missions and Steve would have his ass if he tried—like he's one to talk about risking his safety—so Sam’s at the Tower on babysitting duty.

That, he doesn’t mind. He’s still got something to keep him busy. It frees Pepper up to get her work done. And sure, the little guy can be lot of work, but so are the robot scorpions the team’s currently fighting. And from the look of the news coverage, the giant robot scorpions are a whole lot less cute.

Now Bucky is in bed and Pepper’s been on the phone for hours, so it’s just Sam and Dum-E watching shitty soap operas on television.

And then a dark figure appears in the hall, ducking behind the door frame. Sam waits; a pale face peeks out, then retreats again. He’s got to be five right now. Behavior aside, if Bucky didn’t want to be seen, he wouldn’t be—unless he’s forgotten he’s not exactly child-sized.

“Hey, buddy,” he says softly, trying not to frighten the kid, “Can’t get to sleep?”

“Uh-uh,” comes the small voice from the doorway, “It’s lonely upstairs.”

“You miss the others?” Sam asks. Bucky nods, squeezing his bear. “Come on.” He pats the couch cushion beside him and Bucky hesitates, then slowly makes his way across the room.

They watch TV in silence for a while. Then, out of the corner of his eye, Sam notices Bucky shifting towards him. He doesn’t move, careful not to startle the little guy.

Then he grunts as three hundred pounds of nervous, trembling super soldier tries to sneak into his lap. “Whoa, buddy. Oof. _Damn,_ what do you super soldiers _eat_?” He wraps his arms around Bucky so the kid will know he’s not really mad.

“Pancakes,” Bucky murmurs, snuggling into Sam’s arm.

Sam sighs and resigns himself to being crushed, gently nudging Bucky’s head aside to avoid his injured collarbone. “Pancakes, huh? How about we make some for breakfast tomorrow?”

“With chocolate chips,” Bucky’s not shaking so badly now. Sam rocks him a little, feeling him start to relax.

“Chocolate chips and banana. You can help mix the batter if you want. Got that strong arm for stirring.”

“‘Kay,” Bucky murmurs, hair falling over his face as his head starts to slide down. “Sam?”

“Yeah, what’s up?”

“Did Daddy call?”

“No. I’m sorry, kiddo, they’ve got a real situation going on right now.”

“I wish I could go help,” Bucky whispers into Sam’s arm, “Bucky Bear does too. He doesn’t like sitting around doing nothing when people need help.”

“Well, he sure is a brave bear,” Sam says, heart heavy. He doesn’t like it either, but he’s only stuck here for a couple more weeks. Bucky might never be okay to fight again, which Sam finds perfectly understandable after everything he's been through.

But his closest friend is Captain America, who’ll always be running off to get punched and shot at and, in one case, ensnared in extra-strength suction tentacles.

And Steve himself said Bucky was the guy who always had his back. And now he just can’t do it and Sam hates to imagine just how much that’s killing him.

“Well, I know what we can do,” he manages, “We can have those pancakes ready when they get back. Gotta keep them eating, y’know? Hey,” He pokes Bucky’s side, “You gotta help me out here. What kind of pancakes should we make for him?”

Bucky wipes at his nose. “Apple cinnamon. And orange juice.”

“Apple cinnamon it is, then. And I have a super important job for Bucky Bear.”

“What’s that?”

“I’m gonna need him to guard Cap’s plate. Can’t have any sneaky fingers stealing his pancakes.”

“Who—” Bucky yawns, burrowing his face into Sam’s arm, “Who’s gonna steal his pancakes?”

“Who wouldn’t?” Sam says, “Because they are gonna be some damn—some darn good pancakes we’re gonna make tomorrow.”

“We should make enough for everyone then,” Bucky murmurs, beginning to drift off.

“Whatever you say, buddy,” Sam rocks and rocks him, as best as he can rock a kid that weighs almost twice what he does. He keeps on talking about everything they're going to do tomorrow until both of them have fallen asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why are plot bunnies called plot bunnies? Bunnies are cute and innocent and totally not filled with soul-shattering feels. Right, Snowflake?


	2. Dire Embearassment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"Bucky Bear doesn't wanna."_
> 
> _Bucky Bear is saying a whole lot more than that, but Bucky doesn't think he's allowed to use those words._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess who accompanied her young cousins to the Vermont Teddy Bear factory?
> 
> Guess who has a whole new arsenal of absolutely berrible puns?

Bucky Bear thinks the strength of the electromagnetic generator was programmed way, way too high. 

Iron Bear says less talking, more button-pressing. They're kind of in a  _situation_ here, in case he hadn't noticed.

Bucky Bear thinks it's Iron Bear's own fault they're in this dumb situation, but he doesn't say that. He's too busy saving the day with the control panel, which is actually a TV remote that doesn't work anymore. When Bucky asked why it doesn't work anymore, Tony just said, "Velocity," and went back to mumbling at a metal suit.

He's not really supposed to play in the lab. But Bucky Bear has a super important rescue mission because Iron Bear got himself stuck to the giant magnet way up in the air and Tony agreed that it's really important to not just leave him hanging there. So he can play, as long as Tony is watching. 

Plus, Tony promised to help vacuum the glitter out of his arm. That was an hour ago and Tony keeps saying "Just a few more minutes, kiddo, I promise," so he might as well do a rescue mission while he waits.

"Hey, kid," Tony starts. Bucky Bear finds the right button and Iron Bear begins to fall.

"Uh-huh?" Iron Bear's suit is all messed up from the magnet, but that's okay because Bucky Bear is there to catch him. Bucky Bear is very strong and very fast; no one's falling on  _his_ watch.

"Remember what I was saying before? About how if you needed something to help you get some sleep—"

 _No._ Not this again. Bucky's face instantly goes hot; he can't seem to get away from this conversation no matter  _how_ bad he doesn't want to have it.

"—and I could make it so that no one could tell if you—"

Bucky's shaking his head, hard. "No thanks," he mumbles, hugging tight to the bears. He's trying to figure out a polite way to leave the lab, _right now,_  when Tony speaks again.

"Okay, but look, I was thinking, what if I made something for Bucky Bear too? So you can both—"

 _"No!"_ his voice bursts out way louder than he meant it to. "Bucky Bear doesn't wanna," he adds more quietly. Bucky Bear is saying a whole lot more than that, but Bucky doesn't think he's allowed to use those words. His tummy starts to squirm. "Really, _really_ doesn't wanna."

"Like I told you before, kiddo, I could give it any design. Grizzly bears, or, uh, panda bears, those are pretty adorable, or really any kind of—"

"He's growling," Bucky whispers, but he's pretty sure Tony didn't hear. His eyes sting. He doesn't feel good when Bucky Bear is upset, and right now Bucky Bear is _really_ upset. He hugs as tight as he can but his bear is still seething. Bucky puts his hands over Iron Bear's ears because having him hear this only makes Bucky Bear feel worse.

"Oh, I've got it. Honey bears, like the bottles he eats out of. You like honey, right, Bucky Bear—"

"Bucky Bear says stop," Bucky tries, which isn't exactly what Bucky Bear is saying, but he doesn't want to get in trouble, or his bear either. 

"Bucky Bear says stop what?" Bruce is coming around the table where Tony's been working. Bucky's face gets even hotter. "Tony, be careful with him. Remember what happened with the magnet?" He smiles at Bucky. "Last thing you need right now, I bet. Can, uh, can I ask why you're covered in glitter? Was that Tony's idea, too?"

"Uh-uh. Daddy poured it on me but now I can't get it off," Bucky mumbles, blinking away the sting in his eyes.

"I can help you with that. Come on," Bruce nudges his shoulder, "It's okay, Bucky. I won't let him stick you to a magnet, or—whatever crazy plan he's got going on this time. He's one of the smartest guys I know," he says quietly in Bucky's ear, "But he can be a real dummy sometimes."

"Hey!" Tony complains, but Bruce is already leading him away. "Want me to read to you?"

"Do you have any stories about bears?" Bucky Bear would probably really like a story about bears.

Bruce spends a long time helping him vacuum away the glitter. While he works, they make up lots of stories about strong brave bears. Bruce's voice is really nice. It's soft and quiet and makes Bucky feel all calm. By the time most of the glitter is gone, Bucky Bear has stopped snarling so that he can listen, too. 

Iron Bear says there's not enough rocket-powered bear suits, but he's the whole reason they had to stay in the lab in the first place, so Bucky Bear tells him he can just be quiet.

For once, Iron Bear listens. 

They can't quite get all the glitter off, but they manage enough that Bucky doesn't leave a sparkly mess wherever he goes. Bruce keeps on telling bear stories, though, Bucky's head drooping down onto his shoulder, until JARVIS reminds him that it's time to get ready for bed.

Bucky Bear waves a paw at Bruce on the way to the elevator, and Bucky makes a note to tuck him in next to Hulk Bear tonight.


	3. Some Assembly Required

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Bucky’s eyes are red and shining with unshed tears. He’s clutching one of his kids’ books._

The elevator’s irrelevant, mostly just background noise, at least when Tony’s working in the lab. 

Usually it just means someone's come to throw numbers at him and tell him it’s been that many hours since he last slept, who even _needs_ sleep, he’s thinking of designing a machine that can administer caffeine intravenously, seriously, who _actually_ needs sleep when that could be a thing, and that could rake in a _serious_ profit, maybe—

But this time the sound of the elevator door is accompanied by hyperventilating, and Tony knows what that means, so he actually looks up from the most recent model of his mask. “What’s up, kiddo?”

Bucky’s eyes are red and shining with unshed tears. He’s clutching one of his kids’ books. “It’s not working,” he whimpers.

His _book_ isn’t working? “Come again?” Tony says, already taking the book. Oh. It’s one of those battery-operated ones where you press a button and it reads al—

 _Right_. The book Sam gave to Bucky, with the recording of Steve’s voice.

“—I kept pressing the button but it won’t _do_ anything and, and—what if I _broke_ it, what if Daddy _never_ comes back and that was the last time I ever heard—”

“Kiddo. Hey. It’s okay. Let me take a look at this. I ever tell you about the time I fixed up Dum-E after he got into the bathtub? I think I can repair a _book_.”

“What’s the matter with it?” Bucky whispers, sounding slightly calmer now. 

“Could be a lot of things. Storybooks, you know, _very_ high-tech, very complex, but I’ve got some ideas, and I _think_ —” the kid’s hanging on his every word now. “—I _think_ the problem might be a dead set of batteries, kiddo.”

Bucky’s face reddens. “Oh yeah,” he mumbles.

“Oh yeah. Now. I _have_ some batteries somewhere...” Not that drawer, those are rivets. Measuring glasses. Bungee cords and a bottle of lube—Tony doesn’t remember putting those there, doesn’t really want to—

Wires. Lone socks. Bags of coffee grounds. “...here.”

He can sense the kid holding his breath as he pops open the battery case. _Please_ let this be the problem; he can’t _deal_ with the inevitable meltdown if the damn thing still won’t work.

He presses the button and Steve’s voice comes through the speaker. “Once upon a time, there was a king and queen—”

Bucky snatches the book off the table, hugging it to his chest. “Thank you,” he says breathlessly, “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

Once Bucky’s finished wiping away his tears of panic and quite possibly undying gratitude, he retreats to the corner and curls up on the floor, clutching the book and sucking on the metal thumb. Tony throws one of Bruce’s blankets over him and leaves. Better to give the kid some space, let him get calmed down.

Plus he's actually not sure how many hours it's been since he last slept, without the other Avengers here to remind him. He should probably get two hours, maybe three. Four, tops. Then he'll be good to go.

*

He’s pushed the incident out of his mind by the time he heads back to the lab wrapped up in his newest inspiration for the mask—

(okay, but if he could make the mask breathe _fire_ how damn _cool_ would that be? All right, it also needs practical boring stuff like visibility and face protection, but fire out the mouth, or maybe laser eyes, very striking, very _iconic_ )

—and so he’s startled to hear Steve’s voice reciting from across the room.

Bucky’s still sitting on the floor, clutching a mug and staring intently at the pages.

“You’re gonna wear out those batteries all over again, kid. Shouldn’t you be in bed?”

“I’m not five right—” Bucky cuts himself off abruptly, turning red. “Not a word, understand?”

“Sure, not a word, right, I’m just the guy who fixes everyone’s wings and arms and storybooks, no need to be—” he blinks as a spare bolt nails him in the head.

Kids these days. So ungrateful.


	4. Just a Little Shy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _He doesn’t want to come out of the blankets for a really long time. Maybe not ever._

Bucky’s insides are all warm because Tony gave him a present today, a bunch of pajamas designed special for him. And they’re _good_ , too, warm and soft even though they’re made to look like the Iron Man suit and that’s probably not soft at all.

Bucky wouldn’t know. Only Tony is allowed to wear the suit.

The pajamas are so warm and comfy and Tony made them just for him, and he can’t stop smiling and hugging himself when he’s wearing them.

He’s probably not really supposed to be up. He’d be in bed by now, except everyone just got back from a mission so they’re having a movie night and Bucky’s invited even though it’s late. He probably wouldn’t be able to sleep anyway.

Daddy didn’t come back with the others. He stayed to do even more missions, or at least that’s what Sam said. Bucky knows it’s really because Daddy doesn’t want to see him, not ever again. He blinks really fast and hugs himself tighter.

Sam said that’s not true. Daddy has lots of work to do and stuff to figure out. Bucky hasn’t done anything to make him mad. Daddy doesn’t hate him.

(Bucky swipes quickly at his eyes as he steps into the elevator. He won’t be caught crying, can’t make anyone else upset.)

He thinks Sam’s probably just trying to be nice, though. Even when his last daddy was really, really mad, he never stayed away for this long. Bucky doesn’t think he’s ever coming back.

He pets Bucky Bear’s soft fur. At least Daddy didn’t take _him_ away. He hugs the bear really tight.

When the elevator stops, Bucky steps into the lounge. Most of the others are already there. “Those pajamas!” Pepper exclaims, “You are so _cute_!”

Bucky’s caught off-guard and he ends up peeking out at everyone from behind Bucky Bear. “I’m cute?” His voice comes out smaller than he meant it to.

That starts an outpouring of exclamations and suddenly his tummy feels funny. All the eyes on him are just too many. He hides his face in Bucky Bear as a whimper escapes his throat. He doesn’t know what happened, but it’s too much and he can’t move and he’s shaky all over.

“Oh, honey, I’m sorry—”

“Bucky, no, it’s okay—”

“Aww, sweetie—”

“Oh _no_ , did we embarrass you—”

Their voices are too much and they won’t all stop _staring_ and he thinks they might be _laughing_ at him. His face is so burning hot; he should never have come down here.

Then there’s a hand on his shoulder, warm and calming. “Do you want to leave?” Sam’s voice is gentle; Sam's always gentle, and Bucky never feels like he’s making fun.

He nods really fast, squeezing Bucky Bear tighter to his face.

Sam steers him back to the elevator. In the sudden quiet he hears his own breathing, shaky and way too fast. He tries to slow it down, feeling really dumb. He doesn’t even know _why_ he got upset.

“Want to go back to your room?” Sam offers.

“The lab,” Bucky mumbles. Bruce keeps a special corner with lots of blankets and pillows, and there are workbenches arranged all around it so it feels kind of like hiding. Bucky hid there for half a day last week. He doesn’t remember _why_ ; sometimes his memory’s not so good. He does remember the warmth and quiet, tucked away in the pile of soft blankets.

The lab is dark except for dim lamplight in the blanket corner. Bucky hesitates, but it’s just Bruce, sitting cross-legged at a workbench and reading a book. He doesn’t even look up, just quietly says, “Hi, Bucky,” as Bucky slides past him.

“Hi,” he whispers back, once he’s covered himself in blankets.

“Are you all right?”

“Uh-huh,” Bucky mumbles. He is now, anyway, but he still doesn’t want to come out of the blankets for a really long time. Maybe not ever, not until Daddy comes back and talks to him again, if he’s ever not mad anymore.

He tries to stop sniffling, but Sam and Bruce are hovering over him, asking him if he’s okay, if there’s anything they can get him. “Uh-uh,” he tries to say, only he’s not sure if it comes out properly, and how can he explain that he isn’t even really sure what’s the matter?

Eventually they just sit on the floor next to him, petting his head through the blanket and talking quietly to each other.

“Didn’t want to watch the movie?” Sam asks.

“Long day.” He thinks he hears Bruce shrug. “It takes its toll. I’m just a little tired.” There’s a pause, “It—it expends energy, more energy than a human body’s meant to give. And I’m not getting any younger.”

“Being the big guy, you mean.”

“Let’s just say I prefer the kind of mission where I sit back and solve the problem from behind a screen.”

Soon Bruce and Sam are trading stories and Bucky curls around Bucky Bear to listen. He didn’t know Bruce had a good storytelling voice, but he really does. It makes his brain quiet down and that’s when he realizes he’s sleepy. He yawns.

“I think someone’s just about ready to go to bed,” Sam says.

Bucky pokes his head out of the blankets. “Um…”

“Yeah?”

“Can you come too? And tell more stories?” He hides back under the blanket, face getting hot again.

They do come with him, though, both of them. They don’t complain at all about having to take care of him, and Bruce even lets him bring a blanket because he kind of still feels like hiding. He can't come out, not yet, and Bruce says that's okay and he doesn't have to. 

They tuck him into bed just like his last daddy used to, and Bruce even tucks Bucky Bear in next to him. Sam asks if there’s anything he needs and he almost says water, but he’s trying really really hard to stop wetting the bed—

(last time he slept he did it _again_. That's eight times now; it's not like he even deserves the water)

—so he shakes his head no. They sit on either side of him and talk quietly as his heavy eyes fall shut. Sam keeps his voice low, but Bucky can still tell he’s really excited about Tony’s new additions to his wings. He’s been practicing with them as much as he can before his next mission.

(He’s already said he’s not mad Bucky ruined his other wings, but he still wants to apologize. Those were really _nice_. Maybe tomorrow Sam will let him look at the new wings; maybe he’ll even be allowed to hold them.)

Bruce and Sam get in a long discussion about the mechanisms underneath the metal feathers. Every so often Bruce smoothes his blankets or pats Bucky Bear. Bucky Bear really likes that.

Their voices swirl around him as he drifts off to sleep, and for the first time in he’s not sure _how_ long, Bucky feels completely and totally safe.


	5. How to Care for Your Bucky: a Guide by Steve Rogers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky's been sentenced by the court to a psychiatric facility. Steve's trying to prepare for losing him again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another "I'm bad at titles" thing.

Bucky's finally asleep.

Steve's dead tired. It's been a taxing string of weeks and Bucky's been little all day, too stressed to face tomorrow.

Because tomorrow they're going to bring him to the psychiatric care facility. He won't be coming home.

 _I just got him back, damn it._ Steve's hands tighten on the fabric of the comforter. He should go to bed. Tomorrow's going to be a long day. But he's still here, whispering the rest of Bucky's bedtime story and watching him sleep. He looks peaceful, but who knows what horrors are playing in Bucky's head right at this moment? Right there, less than a foot from him, but Steve can't protect him from his dreams.

Bucky's nestled in a pile of teddy bears and picture books. This isn't the first story Steve's read. Bucky was too scared to rest, so he chose another book, and then another. For hours Steve rocked him and hugged him and hugged Bucky Bear and then hugged Bucky again. Several stories later, he finally crashed, worn out from stress. 

And now Steve's been left to his own worries.

How is he supposed to prepare the doctors for Bucky's needs? He's already making a list in his head, trying to imagine explaining to a doctor how to take care of his friend.

_He can't eat ice cream. Actually, most things with milk are a bad idea, but don't even mention ice cream. Sometimes when he gets scared he can't talk. Hugs help him stay calm, really tight hugs and long showers and also could someone be there to read him a bedtime story? And he needs to wear protection at night because sometimes he gets so scared he wets himself. But don't bring it up. He gets so ashamed, but it's not his fault. Oh, and never try to take away his bear. He always needs to have Bucky Bear. In fact, he should take all his bears because they might make him happy and I can't think of them here in his empty room—_

He shouldn't be crying; he might wake Bucky.

But the tears keep on falling, because he can't stop seeing Bucky playing with his bears. (His face, on Christmas, when he opened the box.) Bucky sitting in his lap, head on his shoulder. Bucky, the first time he managed a happy drawing, proudly presenting it to Steve. (It's his shield and a smiling yellow sun. He still has it on his fridge.) Bucky facing him on the sparring mat, panting and with a gleam in his eye, reminiscent of the man Steve knew so many years ago.

And his sleepy voice in the evenings, after they've read their story: "Night, Daddy. Love you."

 _How_ can he leave his friend locked up in a hospital? How can he agree to see him no more than two hours twice a week? Who's going to give him chocolate chip butterscotch cookies? Who's going to go to the gym and spar with him until they both come away bruised and breathless and laughing? Who's going to understand that he really does need things like sparring and weighted blankets and being little? 

Who's going to understand that Steve needs him _here?_

_It's important that you never act like you're mad at him. No matter what he did, trust me, he wasn't doing it to upset anyone, and he'll beat himself up for a week if he thinks he did. And don't let anyone bully him when he's five. In fact, don't let them give him shit about being little even when he's an adult, but especially watch out for him when he's five. And he needs lots of smoothies because he can't eat enough for his metabolism. And please, please don't blame him for the things he did as the Soldier. He hates himself, but it wasn't his fault. Not any of it. If anything, it was—_

A rattling gasp pulls him out of his thoughts. Bucky's twitching in the bed, no doubt in the clutches of one memory or another. Steve rests a hand on his forehead. "I'm so sorry, Buck," he whispers.

And just for a moment, Bucky begins to still. 

"You're safe," Steve tries, stroking his hair, "It's not real, I promise. I've got you. Shh, I've got you."

And just like that, Bucky relaxes. Steve cards his fingers through his hair and keeps on whispering until he's sure the nightmare's really gone.

"See? Just a dream. I've got you."

Bucky's completely still, his breathing deep and steady.

If only everything could be fixed so easily.

"I love you, Buck," Steve whispers, resting his hand on Bucky's forehead as if he can put better dreams in that way, "I'm so sorry."

Because no matter what he does, it never works well  _enough._ No matter how hard he tries, he's always failing his friend. Losing him, letting him slip away.

"I'm sorry."

The tears have started again by the time he leaves the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should probably stop belatedly deciding that things need more chapters after listing them as complete...anyway, I added [another chapter](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4453220/chapters/10199388) to the girl!Snowflake thing. If anyone wanted to read that.


	6. We'll Find Our Way Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky's "Not Guilty" sentence comes with strings, and he's sent to live in a psychiatric facility. He and Steve each deal with that the best they can.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So there was a lot of sadness in response to the last chapter. And I kept saying, "Well, at least he didn't actually end up in the hospital."
> 
> So then I got [a comment requesting exactly that.](http://archiveofourown.org/comments/36127113) (I already had it half-written by the time further plot bunnies were suggested, but I tried to work them in and I hope this is sufficiently soul-shattering!)
> 
> Basically, in [this interlude](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3705493/chapters/8391244), Bucky was so stressed at the thought of living in the hospital that he became sick. So in this AU he managed to hold it together and was then admitted to the facility.
> 
> Just a heads-up, since I got a comment on the matter in the last chapter: if involuntary institutionalization could be trigger-y for you, you may want to skip this one. This chapter also contains sexual abuse, harassment, and victim-blaming.

Bucky's in his room. The others are bringing in his stuff from the car while Steve talks to the director.

It's hard to focus on what she's saying when the security guard is behind her, rifling through Bucky's backpack. It's such a violation. At the Tower everyone has tried to allow Bucky as many personal boundaries as he could safely have. Here, there is no privacy. Some of the patients even have an attendant in the bathroom while they shower. This is exactly the kind of thing Bucky  _doesn't_ need.

The guard slides a few pull-ups out of the pack with a raised eyebrow and Steve wants to rip Bucky's stuff from his hands. 

Instead, he turns to Doctor East. He's already explained about Bucky's little side, and these people have had access to all the evidence used in the trial. (Another violation; Bucky never gave them permission to have any of that.) At this point all Steve can do is hope these people will be understanding.

"I was told there are limited hours for phone calls," he's saying, "but he has these therapists who've been working with him, they've said he can call them from here. Could he be allowed to talk to them whenever he needs to?"

"That could probably be arranged," Doctor East scribbles a note in her file. 

 _But he doesn't always ask for what he needs. Who's going to remind him to call them?_ Steve makes a note to mention that to Bucky before he leaves.

"If it's all right with him, I'd also like to consult his current doctors on how best to treat him. Especially if he has any physicians, since he's something of an anomaly and it'd be best if we knew how to handle a medical crisis, should one arise."

 _Or they could have let him stay with the doctors he had. He was doing just fine with them._ "I'll ask Bucky what's okay. His therapists might want to talk to him before they meet with you."

She nods. "Understandable. Anything else?"

"He has these stuffed bears. And one of them—the Bucky Bear—has to stay with him at all times. It's, uh...it's never okay for anyone to try and take it from him. He just needs to have it. He has a storybook, in his backpack, it's a recording, but if he could...when he's a kid, he might ask for someone to read to him."

"I'll let the staff know. I'm sure they'd be willing to do that."

Steve's heart aches a little at the thought of someone else reading Bucky his bedtime story, but at the same time he's glad Bucky will have that, if he needs it.

"There's also..." he really wishes the guard would leave. "He...he has a bedwetting problem. He wears protection at night to deal with it. If someone could make sure he has what he needs, and just...don't bring it up. He'd rather deal with it on his own."

He feels sick, giving his friend's personal information to this stranger and, by extension, to a whole network of guards and doctors and assistants. Bucky's going to hate this. Steve hates this.

Doctor East nods again. "Noted. Anything else?"

*

Steve carefully arranges Bearvengers around the headboard of the bed, giving Bucky Bear his rightful place on the pillow. He rests Bucky's backpack against the nightstand. After it passed inspection for dangerous objects, Steve took it into the hall, unzipped all the compartments, and put everything back in the way Bucky had it.

They've promised to bring him more of his stuff from home if they can get it through inspection. Right now the room is bare and impersonal, aside from the bears and the sheets. Those are Bucky's protected sheets and so he brought them with him. The walls are unadorned, but maybe he can hang up some of his crayon drawings.

There's a TV bolted in the upper corner of the room. It only gets approved channels, but Steve wonders if it can play movies. He could bring Bucky some Disney films.

All too soon, there's an assistant standing in the doorway. She introduces herself as Caroline and announces that it's time to wrap it up; there's a scheduled introductory meeting and Bucky's supposed to be there. Steve squeezes his hand. "You gonna be okay?"

"Sure," Bucky said, his hand trembling in Steve's, "This place. It's got the spa, got the pool, got the watch towers...all the amenities." He squeezes back. "The rest of you, watch out for him, all right? Don't let this asshole do anything stupid."

And he looks at Steve expectantly, and _God, he remembers_. Steve forces back tears and gets out, "How can I? You're taking all the stupid with you."

He almost makes it out the door, almost, and then there's a tiny voice behind him. "Daddy."

No. No, not now, Steve can't leave him like this. He was holding himself together, he was, but it must have just been too much. He turns back to see Bucky standing in the middle of the room, shaking, his eyes shiny.

"Buck." He rushes back in and hugs Bucky tight, rubbing his back. "Hey, it's okay. It's okay. You'll be okay here, right? They're nice. And I'll come see you on Wednesday. On Wednesday, I promise."

"Wednesday," Bucky repeats, not loosening his hold in the slightest.

"Captain Rogers—" Caroline says, and Bucky begins to whimper.

"Just give us a few minutes," Steve says firmly, rocking Bucky back and forth. "Breathe, Bucky. Count of ten."

He feels his friend struggling to get the air into his lungs. He keeps on rocking him and murmuring in his ear. "That's it. You're doing great. I know, this is hard. I'm so proud of you. Come on, breathe again."

With a constant stream of encouragement his breathing eases but he doesn't let go. And Steve hates himself for doing it, but he whispers, "I've got to go, Buck. I love you." And, as gently as possible, he pushes Bucky away.

"Love you," he says again, desperately. He manages to grab Bucky Bear off the bed and stuffs him into Bucky's hands. Then he forces himself out the door before tears can form, feeling Bucky staring after him.

*

Last time he lost Bucky he spent hours trying to drink himself senseless.

And that didn't really work, so this time Steve goes to the gym and takes out punching bag after punching bag. Sometimes they have faces: Schmidt, Zola, Rumlow, Pierce. Not tonight, though. Tonight Steve doesn't know  _who_ he wants to hit.

After he showers off the sweat, force of habit takes him to Bucky's floor. He sits on the edge of Bucky's bed, storybook in hand. He doesn't even need to open it, he's read it so many times.

"At the far end of town, where the Grickle-Grass grows,

And the wind smells slow and sour when it blows,

And no birds ever sing excepting old crows

Is the Street of the Lifted Lorax..."

He can pretend, can't he, that Bucky's bed isn't empty? Just as he can pretend not to notice that Natasha is sitting on the other side of the wall, just outside the door.

*

"He doesn't come out much, except for meals or therapy," The assistant, a young man who introduced himself as Carl, is telling Steve as they walk down the hall to Bucky's room, "But he cooperates well with the doctors and they think he's just adjusting, so no one's too worried just yet. We figured we'd give him a chance to get settled before we tried to push anything."

Steve hears his own voice first. He recognizes it from the recording.

Bucky's curled up in his chair with Bucky Bear, listlessly flipping through the pages of  _Sleeping Beauty._  Steve rushes in and scoops him up in his arms.

"Daddy," Bucky gasps, hugging tight. 

"Hey, Buck." He feels lighter, doesn't he, and thinner? "You doing okay?"

"Daddy I'm sorry I know we talked about doing healthy things like the gym and swimming and making friends but I just got scared and I missed everyone  _so much_  I just—"

"Shhh," Steve soothes, rocking him, "You're doing great, Bucky, I'm proud of you. You can do those things whenever you're ready. It's okay." He sits down in the chair, settling Bucky in his lap. "I missed you so much."

"I missed you too," Bucky mumbles, face buried in Steve's shoulder. For a while they just sit, hugging. Then Bucky reaches for  _Sleeping Beauty._ "Can we read?"

And so Steve spends his two hours rocking Bucky and hugging him and reading story after story.

Before he leaves he says, "I shouldn't have pushed you to do everything at once, Buck. But how about you do one healthy thing this week, and call your doctors just to touch base?"

"'Kay," Bucky says, looking a lot calmer than he was two hours ago. "I'll try. And, Daddy? Don't worry about me, okay? The people here are actually nice. Last night I had a really scary dream and Caroline watched movies with me till I felt better."

"That's good," Steve says.

"But...I just miss home," Bucky whispers. "Can you give DUM-E a hug for me? And also a hug from Bucky Bear. And pet Lucky for me. And tell Tasha and Red Panda I said hi."

"I'll do that," Steve says, heart heavy, "And Tasha will talk to you on the phone. We all will, as soon as it's allowed. Okay?"

"'Kay."

They manage to part without a scene this time, though Bucky and his bear need two hugs each before that happens. And each Bearvenger needs a hug, and then Bucky and Bucky Bear need hugs again. Steve gets the distinct sense that Bucky's stalling, but then, it's not like he's really trying that hard to leave.

*

Sometimes Bucky calls and Steve can hear the forced cheer in his voice. Can hear everything he's not saying.

He doesn't want Steve to worry, doesn't want to sound like he's complaining. He thinks he got better than he deserves, has said as much. Refuses to believe otherwise no matter what Steve says.

Today, though, he sounds more like himself.

"So, Steve, you're never gonna guess what the latest cure for crazy is. They told me I should try knitting. That's the solution to everything, Steve, I can just knit my problems away!" He pauses. "By the way, would you happen to want a sweater? Or a pile of sweaters. Just wondering."

Steve can't help but smile. "Sure, Buck."

But then he has to hang up and go to dinner, and  _damn_ the table is quiet these days, especially when Sam and Thor aren't here. It occurs to Steve that, off-mission, they never made a habit of eating as a group before Bucky came to live here. He kind of brought them together.

*

"Turns out, delivery actually comes out this way," Bucky says, stretching out on the bed, "So I ordered a whole bunch of pizzas and me and a couple others had a party. They were taking bets on how much pizza I could eat. Beat the highest one by three slices."

"You moron," Natasha rolls her eyes, "Did you even think about how much milk is in that?"

"It seemed like a good idea last night." Bucky curls back into a ball. "This morning, not so much." He has the look of a man with no regrets. "Just tell Clint I beat his pizza record."

"I will not. He's got two things in this world he's proud of, his archery and his pizza record. Don't break his heart. And you know he'd try to beat it." Natasha balances Red Panda on Bucky's head.

"C'mon. Don't make me suffer for nothing."

"You did this to yourself. See, this is why we don't let children eat what they want. And yes, that does include Clint."

"Like you can talk." Bucky curls tighter around Bucky Bear. "Steeeve. My tummy hurts. Read me a story."

"Yeah, Steve," Natasha demands, flopping back on the bed, "Read us a story."

"Read us a story, what?" Steve teases.

"Read us a story and I won't puke on you," Bucky says petulantly, and Steve laughs.

"Close enough."

*

"You got another sweater!" Natasha calls from the elevator, "He's got a mean fashion sense, Steve, you're gonna have to let me borrow this."

The sweater is patterned with stars and stripes in red, white, and blue. Stitched across the front is _#1 Dad_.

Steve smiles. "I'm not wearing that."

"You better. I will dress you myself if I have to, but you're wearing the sweater."

He wears the sweater, and Natasha gets a photo for Bucky. They're trying to send him lots of little things, pictures and paintings and decorations to make his room less impersonal.

The next day, she appears at breakfast, glaring over the potatoes, in a sweater festooned with Mickey Mouse heads. She has better sense than to get within range of a camera, but Steve commits the image to memory so that he can draw it for Bucky.

He's been drawing a lot more lately. In the past week he filled a sketchbook.

He's been reading a lot, too. He's found he sleeps a lot better when he reads at night.

He knows he's not the only one who isn't sleeping well, because sweater after sweater arrives at the Tower. Bruce has one with the recycle logo and the slogan "GO GREEN". Tony has "My Other Car Is A Rocket Suit" and Clint receives "If Lost, Please Return To Natasha."

("I'm gonna kill that kid," he mutters, pulling the sweater over his head.)

*

He's still missing home, but Bucky's done his best with his circumstances. He's made a couple friends at the hospital, and apparently the other patients on his floor have kind of adopted his little side. They hold his hand and walk him to therapy when he's nervous, play out bear missions, and come crash in his room when he's had nightmares.

He works out at the gym, swims in the pool, and draws crayon pictures for the art therapists. He's been calling the Worths on a regular basis, and the hospital staff are highly satisfied with how well he's settled in.

Which is why it comes as such a shock when Steve got a call saying that Caroline caught Bucky trying to run away. Had he been an adult at the time, he'd likely have managed it. As it was, he immediately crawled under a table, hyperventilating and apologizing. He's been under there since, and he won't say what's wrong. Would it be possible for Steve to talk to him?

"I'm sorry, Daddy," comes the tiny voice at the other end of the line, followed by panting and wheezing.

"I'm not mad, Bucky," Steve says patiently, "Why don't you tell me what happened?"

He can't, though. He can't speak coherently for another ten minutes, Steve talking to him and reminding him to breathe and reciting stories to him through the phone.

"Come on, Bucky. Take your time. I'll stay on the phone all night if you need me to."

"I—" Bucky pants into the phone, trying to get control of himself. "I just—I was being stupid, I panicked, I'm sorry. I—I um, when I first came here I thought people might be mad at me but most people here were really nice. But then—" He stops to get a breath and Steve's heart sinks. "There were just these two guys, I don't even know them that well, they live in a different wing. I only ever saw them at the pool. And this morning all my friends were too busy to come with me, but my shoulder was hurting and I really wanted to swim. So I came by myself and they were there."

Oh, no. No, no, no. Steve thinks he sees where this is going.

"And Daddy, I never even  _talked_ to them I swear they just came up to me and they were mad about the Soldier. And other stuff. And they were saying I'm bad and evil and a traitor and how I, how I shouldn't even  _be_ here I should be locked up forever in a jail getting—getting—" He's hyperventilating again, forcing out the words, "They called me lots of bad things, they called me—they called me a Nazi whore," he bursts out, and then he's panting and wheezing uncontrollably into the phone.

"Bucky.  _Bucky,_ breathe—" Steve is  _actually_ seeing red. 

"They said I should be in prison getting, um, said I should have people doing stuff like my last daddy used to do, have people do that stuff once for every time I ki—I ki—" he's coughing, choking on the words.

" _Breathe!_ " He tries not to give direct orders, but Bucky will make himself sick if he keeps this up. He wheezes obediently for a few seconds while Steve tries to figure out what to  _do_ about this. But Bucky's not done.

"Daddy, hitting is bad I  _know_ that I didn't want to but they wouldn't stop trying to  _touch_ me and I didn't know what to  _do_ and anyway touching like that is  _bad_  and you all _said_ I shouldn't do it anymore but they wouldn't stop and then I was just hitting. I didn't do it a lot, Daddy, I _promise_ , but just enough that me an' Bucky Bear got away and I just, I thought they were gonna be so mad I didn't even know what to _do_ because hitting is really  _bad_ here. And I didn't know what the punishment would be and I got scared and  _Daddy what if they come back?"_

"Oh, Bucky," is all Steve can say, "Shh, honey." Rage is surging through him and he's seeing stars.

"I'm sorry I made them call you I couldn't tell I was so scared—"

"It's okay. Bucky, breathe and listen to me. It's okay, it's not your fault. You had to protect yourself, I know. Listen to me, now, okay? I need you to be really brave for me and go get Caroline again. Can you do that?"

"I can't, I can't  _move!_ "

"That's okay. Take all the time you need. I'm gonna come help you, Buck, okay? The hell with visiting hours, I'm coming down there. I promise I've got your back, Bucky. I've got you. I'm coming."

"You don't have to, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to make all this happen—"

"It's okay. Come on. Breathe for me. Take as long as you need..."

*

The sedatives they dosed Bucky with didn't have much of an effect. It's his super-soldier metabolism; they barely slowed him down. 

Steve came prepared, though. He's still got a bottle of the pills they used in Bucky's earliest days at the Tower, when his emotions could flare up hard without him being able to explain why. Within twenty minutes Bucky's eyes are at half-mast and he's slumped tiredly in Steve's lap in Doctor East's office.

Natasha sits on the couch next to them, holding Bucky's hand. She insisted on coming along to drive, as Steve was a seething mess of rage and worry. The whole story came spilling out on the way over and Natasha's hands had gone white on the steering wheel.

"Those men are lucky they're safely locked up," she said quietly, staring at the road, and began muttering in Russian.

When they arrived, Bucky was sitting on his knees on the floor of his room, rocking back and forth. A team of doctors offered him pill after pill. He kept hyperventilating and shaking his head. "I'm sorry," he was saying, "It's not working." 

When he caught sight of Steve he went silent, pleading for help with his eyes. Steve and Natasha were both down on the floor in an instant, hugging and reassuring him, and that's when Steve offered him the sedative. There's probably a rule against that, but not one doctor argued.

Now that he's calm, Bucky is able to recount the story to Doctor East. His therapist, Mandy, sits in the rolling chair by the desk, swiveling back and forth and glaring at the security guard who was supposedly on duty at the pool this morning.

"You're not in trouble, James," Doctor East says, white-faced. "Not even for trying to run away. We'll discuss that later. As for this morning, if self-defense was necessary then there will be no punishment against you."

"But how do we know this really _was_ self-defense?" asks the guard, "Especially given his history."

"James has been here for nearly a month without an altercation. In addition to that, no one has reported a life-threatening injury today, and I'd say James's history is in fact evidence that if he had wanted to hurt these men, he'd have done so." Doctor East says, her ghostly pale face betraying her clinical demeanor, "And so I am inclined to believe what he says."

"And, after all," adds Mandy, making no effort to conceal the bitterness in her voice, "if you had been doing your job, Eric, you would know."

"Doctor Keltner," Doctor East says, but without a trace of reprimand in her tone, and Steve can tell she agrees with the therapist, "we're here to discuss this matter professionally. Eric, I'd like to see you in my office when this meeting is over. Now, James, I want to know if you could identify these two men if you saw them again."

"Uh-huh," Bucky nods into Steve's chest, "I've seen 'em around before. I'd know if I saw 'em."

"What I want to know," Natasha says, "is why he would have to identify them in the first place. It's like Mandy said, isn't it? Eric was on duty at the pool. I'd like to ask him why we don't have a witness."

And there it is. It's the elephant in the room. It's the reason they're here, the reason there even was an incident in the first place.

Because those guys must have known the pool area was watched. But perhaps they also knew which guard was on-duty. A guard sharing their grudge against the Winter Soldier.

He couldn't have been watching, or Bucky would have been reported for violence right away. But Steve doesn't imagine it took much to convince him to turn a blind eye. Look the other way. Go grab some breakfast or take a convenient bathroom break.

"We have backup security footage, if needed," Doctor East quickly glosses over the moment, and though he's sedated Bucky goes rigid in Steve's arms. Just another thing he doesn'tneed; the reminder that he's being watched. "We'll review it in the morning and you can identify the men—privately, James, you won't have to speak to them at all. I'll show you their profiles on the computer and you can let me know if those are the men who attacked you."

"'Kay," Bucky yawns, head sliding down against Steve's arm.

"And I promise that this case will be looked into, and necessary measures will be taken with everyone involved," Doctor East says.

"We're counting on that," Natasha returns, not taking her eyes off of Eric.

*

It all gets smoothed out much better than Steve expected. The aggressors are given restrictions to keep them from getting near Bucky. They'll be monitored by personal guards and only allowed access to the shared spaces at limited times. Though he's put under close surveillance for his escape attempt, Bucky is not punished, and Eric is fired. Really, aside from the fact that this happened in the first place, it couldn't have been handled better.

But that's the wake-up call. It happened. It shouldn't have, but it did, and Steve can't prevent it from happening again. Who knows how many others hold a grudge against the Soldier? How many people still blame Bucky? There are about a million different ways this could have gone bad. What if they'd taken Bucky Bear? What if they'd triggered the Soldier? What if Bucky had accidentally caused a serious injury and been blamed for it? 

Steve calls up Maria and she does the rest. He doesn't even have to testify. Mandy says that Bucky's rapport with the Worths is stronger, that having a horde of extra therapists is redundant and unhelpful. Caroline talks about the stress of his new location, how life at the Tower was tailored exactly to his needs. And Doctor East says that she does not think his time in treatment at the facility has benefited him. He already struggles with trust, and the few people he knows well are now cut off from him. If it were a matter of treating him, she says, it would be different, but as the government seems to see it as a method of containment, she cannot recommend the facility over the Tower.

Not that Steve couldn't have told them that  _before_ they had him locked up.

Then Eric is brought forward and Steve relishes the sight of him squirming while he explains how he allowed two patients to attack Bucky. Maria uses his testimony to show that Bucky is not a threat to the public. After all, his opponents only came away with bruises, didn't they? They attacked him and not the other way around? The incident caused a serious breakdown, during which Bucky did not harm a single person, isn't that right?

Eric keeps nervously glancing their way as he answers. He explains (looking as though he'd rather be drinking acid) that he only meant for the Soldier to get 'a little roughed up'. Failing that, he'd hoped to provoke him just enough to incite an incident that would result in his punishment.

Steve thinks there's going to be a new face on his punching bag tonight.

Eric apologizes for his actions (with a face that looks as though he has just swallowed mold) and says that his disregard for the rules of his job could have resulted in serious injury or death. "I would like to personally apologize to the—Sergeant Barnes, for any effects on him that my actions may have had," he concludes.

Steve could swear he keeps glancing at Natasha, but whenever he looks at her she's staring straight ahead, her face calmly blank.

*

When they come to take Bucky home, he's considerably more excited than when they brought him here. He's running through the halls saying good-bye to his friends, many of whom are wearing personalized sweaters. He collects e-mail addresses, promising to write, and says they better tell him if anyone who can eat more pizza than him comes along.

"They haven't met me yet," Clint says. Natasha elbows Bucky and he closes his mouth.

Caroline and Carl each hug Bucky about five times, and Mandy gives him a parting gift (a bundle of flavored honey sticks that he can share with Bucky Bear.) Doctor East wishes Bucky good luck, and it's the first time Steve sees her smile.

They're not quite across the courtyard when Bucky freezes. Steve can guess what he's looking at before he turns.

The two men are staring, wide-eyed. But not at Bucky. On his left, Natasha smiles and gives them a little wave. The taller of the two grabs the arm of the fat one, and they retreat back indoors.

"What did you  _do?"_ Bucky whispers.

"I don't know what you're talking about." Tasha punches him in the shoulder and takes off running. "Race you to the door!"

"No fair!" Bucky shouts, starting after her. His suitcase falls to the ground. Steve sighs and picks it up, their laughter echoing in the cold winter air.

That night, Steve wraps Bucky tight in his arms and promises he can have as many stories as he wants. He asks for _Sleeping Beauty,_ of course, and then  _Fox in Socks_ and  _Stellaluna_ and  _Sleeping Beauty_ again. He's yawning pretty wide on that last one, but Steve doesn't say a word. God, he missed this so much and he thought he'd never have it again. 

Bucky's falling asleep, head sliding down his chest, and Steve can't bring himself to nudge him off. So he just pulls the covers around both of them and whispers, "Night, Bucky. Love you." 


	7. Bathtime

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“They’re on a mission,” Bucky informs Steve, “But there’s a storm, and lots of bad guys. It’s really dangerous.”_

It’s not his first time being roused from sleep by a teddy bear to the face, but it’s still a confusing way to wake up.

Steve can feel Bucky shuddering and gasping beside him. He reaches over; sometimes he can be calmed without waking.

“You’re okay, honey, you’re safe,” he whispers, stroking his arm, but Bucky only begins to whimper.

With a sigh, Steve nudges him until he goes still. “Daddy...”

“Right here. Nightmare?”

“Uh-huh,” he says shakily.

Steve slips an arm around Bucky’s shoulders, drawing him closer. “Wanna tell me about it?”

“The chair,” he mumbles. He has a million and one variations of that dream. “Last daddy, he was really mad. Wouldn’t let me—” his voice breaks, and his hand wraps tightly into Steve's shirt, “—said he might not let me up ever again.”

Steve squeezes him and murmurs that he's safe, that there will be no more punishments, no more chair. Bucky's trembling begins to ease.

There'll be no more Pierce, either, no more rule codes for sick, perverted mind games, but Steve doesn't say that. In the dim glow from the nightlight, Bucky's eyes have turned sad and plaintive, like if he could just get back into his nightmare he could maybe make his Daddy happy this time. Steve tries really hard not to dwell on that, but sometimes he does feel bitter. Not toward Bucky. God, not toward him. It's not his fault at all. 

But why can't Steve protect him from this? He just wishes he knew how to  _help._ He settles for squeezing Bucky and whispering, "I love you so much, you know that?"

Bucky nods against his shoulder. "Love you too." His breath hitches, but he sounds better than he did a minute ago.

They sit like that, Steve holding Bucky and whispering reassurances in his ear. Eventually, he slumps against Steve's chest, breathing evenly again.

He’s also begun to squirm, his cheeks reddening. Steve can guess what that means.

"Think a bath would help you feel better?" 

Bucky nods, burying his face in Steve’s arm. Steve squeezes his shoulders again, kissing the top of his head.

He's still a little shaky, so Steve scoops him up and carries him. He pulls Bucky's shirt over his head and helps him step out of his pants. Then he guides him into the tub, but not before testing the water with his hand to make sure it isn't too hot. He can see the relief on Bucky's face as he sinks into the warmth, and his trembling hands grow steady.

Steve hands him a toy, given to them by one of Pepper's relatives, some cousin with little kids. It's a large plastic boat with a steering wheel and a working anchor. Steve hadn't thought to give Bucky bath toys, since he never used to like baths, but maybe it'll make him feel better.

It does seem to distract him from his fear. He prods the boat across the tub. “They’re on a mission,” he informs Steve, “But there’s a storm, and lots of bad guys. It’s really dangerous.” He spins the boat around in the water.

“Oh yeah?” Steve dampens Bucky’s hair with a cup and lathers it up, scrubbing gently. Bucky’s tension melts away as he leans into the touch.

“Uh-huh. The waves are really strong and there are pirates.” He bounces the boat up and down. “Oops. I splashed you.”

Steve splashes him back and a battle ensues. Once a very soggy Steve has declared Bucky the clear victor, he goes back to rubbing shampoo through his hair. Wave after wave splashes across the deck of the boat as Bucky tells Steve how brave the Captain is being, even after he's been captured by pirates.

“I bet. Close your eyes,” Steve instructs, pouring the cup over Bucky’s head. Foamy water trickles through his hair and down his face. When it rinses away clear, Steve carefully brushes out his hair. “Ready to go back to bed now?”

“But they haven’t finished their mission yet,” Bucky says earnestly, “They can’t leave the Captain trapped!” He looks highly distressed by the thought. "And the mission isn't complete!"

“You can play for five more minutes, okay? And then you need to get your rest.”

The Captain bravely rescues the hostages despite the fact that he, in Bucky's words, takes too many risks and doesn't carry a parachute. Doesn't he know you should always have a parachute handy? These situations are a lot more common than you'd expect, and who would want to fall out of the sky without a parachute?

"Captains and boys both need their sleep," Steve reminds him. With mild reluctance Bucky lets him pull him to his feet and wrap him in a towel. The boat drifts down toward the drain. Bucky's eyes follow it, watching it come to rest at the bottom of the tub.

"They got ashore safe," he informs Steve, "No one drowned or anything. The Captain was so brave. Even though the Commander had to come save him from pirates."

"Oh. Is that how it went?" Steve asks.

"Uh-huh." Bucky yawns, his head tipping forward. The bath made him drowsy again; he nearly falls asleep on Steve’s shoulder as Steve pulls his arms through his sleeves.

“Someone needs to go to bed,” he murmurs, kissing Bucky’s forehead.

“Can you tell me a story?” Bucky turns up to him with big pleading eyes. “Please, Daddy?”

“I’m gonna get new clothes on first. _Someone_ splashed water all over me.”

Bucky giggles. “That’s ‘cause you got in a water fight in your clothes, you dummy.”

“Oh? I’m a dummy, huh?” Bucky tenses a little, mood shifting; he still gets nervous about teasing and talking back. All this time, and he’s still so scared he’ll make someone mad. Steve wraps an arm around his shoulders, rubbing his back. “Guess I am. Who jumps out of a plane without a parachute? Here, you go ahead and pick your story while I get changed.”

Bucky chooses _The Lorax_ , one of Steve’s personal favorites. He doesn’t get to read much of it tonight, though; he’s barely a few pages in before Bucky is facedown in his pillow, fast asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This might diverge somewhat from the original story, but I found the idea too cute not to write. If it did take place, though, I would envision it sometime a bit into the future, when Bucky's a little more comfortable with his own body. Not entirely sure if the Bucky in the series would enjoy being given baths, at least just yet.


	8. Warm Me Up and Breathe Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just as a what-if, this chapter is an AU of the AU. Lots of not-APSHDS-canon stuff involved. Hope everyone enjoys.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Be my friend, hold me_   
>  _Wrap me up, unfold me_   
>  _I am small, and needy_   
>  _Warm me up and breathe me_
> 
> -Breathe Me (Sia)

Bucky runs until all he can hear is his rasping breath and the pounding of his feet on the treadmill.

He's not out of breath from the workout. His old training program used to make him run twice this fast, and he didn't get breaks then. But he's still shaking off a nightmare and his lungs haven't got the memo that he's safe.

It happens every time without fail, as if by some sort of innate sense. When the Avengers are away from the Tower, the nightmares always come, in vivid detail and with renewed intensity. Bucky's tried everything he can think of. He's had JARVIS talk to him while he sleeps. He's drifted off to the sound of the recording Steve gave him. He tries to tell himself his friends aren't really gone. None of that kept him from waking up up wet and in tears and calling out for Steve, and he wasn't five when it happened.

His face heats at the memory, and he sets the treadmill to cycle faster. 

He's trying to block out everything, snapping sounds like crackling electricity and the whipping belt and the sharpness in Pierce's voice when he was most angry. Which is why he doesn't hear Steve until he's right in front of him. "Hey. You doing okay?"

Bucky dials down the speed to a brisk walk. "Mostly, yeah."

"Did you sleep at all?" Steve's brow knits in concern.

"Some." Almost six hours. It's not that bad, for him. "I got restless. What about you, though? You look pretty good for post-mission. You sleep through the action?"

"Ended without violence," Steve says, leaning against the treadmill, "Solved before we even got there."

"Shame," Bucky steps off the treadmill and almost falls over. Runner's high; his head reels a bit. "Didn't get to beat anyone up."

"I could beat you up," Steve lifts his chin, "Wanna go a few rounds?"

"Not fair," Bucky protests, "I'm all worn out and you spent the last day sitting in a Quinjet."

"Means you have an excuse when you lose."

Bucky laughs, toweling sweat from his face. "But you won't have an excuse when I  _win._ " He's steady on his feet now, and Steve interrupted his workout midway through. He's still got plenty left in him for fighting.

So they head for the sparring mat, Steve's face taking on a kind of closed-off intensity, preparing to get hit. Bucky can almost remember it from so many years ago.

Then he lunges. Bucky pivots out of the way easily, but he has to admit Steve's gotten better at fighting him. He usually doesn't make the first move. Damn it, Bucky's spent too much time on lockdown if his technique has become so predictable.

They lock eyes for a little while, each watching the other, then Steve dives again. This time they fight in earnest, tangled up in each other, and for the first time since he woke up, Bucky can breathe. Fighting comes to him with ease, his body knowing almost automatically what to do. He manages to get a few good hits in, but when he's got Steve pinned to the mat the dumbass decides to throw a punch directly at his face.

He dodges easily, of course, but it's still so poorly done that it completely throws him off. "What the hell was that?" And now he's laughing, damn it, but he's still fighting, too, and Steve's laughing, his head back against the mat, and Bucky's not sure when lunging at him turned to kissing him hard on the mouth, sucking at the traces of sweat he finds there. It just happens.

He didn't mean anything by it, not really, it was just the pure ridiculousness of the moment, that clumsy swing and the laughter and—

For a second, Steve's lips respond to his. Just for a moment. Then he's freezing and Bucky's pulling back, his mind hot and scrambled like the omelets Daddy makes him—

"Daddy. I'm sorry," he manages to get out, shaking really hard. Those games are bad and wrong, everyone says so, and they say before it wasn't his fault because his last daddy made him, but this time he's the bad one doing it and last time he tried, Daddy didn't talk to him for two whole weeks. The look on his face...

What's wrong with him, that he would want to play such sick, bad games? "I'm sorry," he says again, "I know, I'm not supposed to, I—"

But Daddy's hugging him tight, which has him really confused for a moment. Bucky's shifting away because there's another bad thing happening and his stomach is lurching. "It's okay, Bucky. You haven't done anything wrong," but he's stammering and Bucky can tell he's shocked. He pulls Bucky to his feet, but he's so panicked Daddy has to guide him to the elevator. Fear has helped to make the problem go away, but when Daddy suggests he shower off the sweat, Bucky still agrees, and he makes the water as cold as it will go just to be sure it won't come back.

He's not hard anymore, and he's trying not to think about it, but he still feels shaky and nervous, so he has to lie down on Daddy's couch for a while while Daddy promises that Bucky really, really hasn't been bad. He says they'll talk when he's big again, but for now, he should just try to calm down and not worry. Daddy brings tea to help with that, and he puts in extra honey for Bucky Bear, and they spend the rest of the day curled up on the couch watching movies. That does make Bucky feel better. He figures he can't be in too much trouble if he's being allowed to watch Disney.

*

Steve sits carefully on the other end of the couch after post-mission movie night has come to an end. "So."

Bucky's been avoiding him, bracing himself for the inevitable long talk about airing out feelings and  _God_ hasn't he embarrassed himself enough?

But Steve only says, "Whatever you need, Buck, you know I'm here for you. So if you want to pretend that never happened, then it didn't." Steve takes a deep breath. "But if you want anything  _else_ , I, uh...I'd be all right with that, too."

Bucky's poor head is too abused to deal with shit like this. Steve feels...Steve would...is that what he's saying? Does Steve look at him that way?

 _Can_ he? Even now? Even...

In his time at the Tower, Bucky has thrown up on Steve on multiple occasions. He's wet his bed and sobbed on his shoulder, clung to him and called him Daddy, reminded him, time and time again, of days spent in Pierce's lap and nights spent in his bed. Last time they went out, Steve had to take him to the bathroom because apparently when he's five he's too nervous to piss in front of other men. He's had to promise him that there's shark repellant in the swimming pool and leeches can't hurt teddy bears and HYDRA isn't hiding in the ceiling. Bucky has a vague sense of the man he used to be, and he feels like the only version of him that anyone could really  _desire_ died in the snow decades ago.

"And if you want time to figure out which one it is, that's all right, too." Steve adds, "Whatever you want, I'd be fine with it."

"I..." Bucky says hesitantly, his stomach knotting up. He can't stop thinking about it, and with Steve looking right at him, it's...

He thinks back to kissing him in the gym this morning, salty sweat and laughter, his arm pressed to Steve's chest. "I. Uh." Shit. According to Steve he used to be good at this. He hasn't even  _said_ anything and already he can feel his face flaring red. "I think, maybe..." Fuck it. He leans over and kisses Steve on the cheek—lightly, not like this morning, just experimentally, just to see. "I think maybe we could try. If—if you wanted to."

Bucky would never have imagined how that would make Steve's face light up. "Of course, Buck," he says softly, pulling him into a hug. He kisses his ear—lightly, innocently, but Bucky has to bury his face in Steve's shirt to hide his smile.

*

There are rules, of course. There are always rules, for every goddamned part of Bucky's life. When you're a certified nutcase, you don't get to start...whatever the hell this is...without your therapists getting involved.

Bucky doesn't think he ever imagined sitting with Steve in therapy while doctors gave them guidelines for kick-starting their sex life. But Miriam and Cornelius do raise some good points.

So Steve and Bucky come out of it with a list of agreements. They're going to take things slow, and only do what Bucky wants to do, when he wants to do it. They'll use Steve's room, not Bucky's, because Bucky needs to have an unquestionably safe space and sex, for him, is not unquestionably safe. They're never going to do anything when Bucky's five, because he needs to be able to say no, because Steve doesn't want to risk causing further trauma. Bucky suspects it's more because Steve's repulsed by the thought, and who can blame him? He says nothing, though. He can't imagine ever wanting to have sex in his little mindset.

Honestly, even now, he's not sure what he wants.

Sex isn't something he's really let himself think about at all. And relationships...

...he's still maybe half-crazy, even though he's on enough drugs to knock out a small elephant. He finds himself hidden in strange places, confused and convinced of things he can't quite put into words. He's damaged, maybe forever, in ways he doesn't even want to begin to explain to a potential partner, and besides that, he can't pretend to himself that he's not dangerous. There wasn't even a question of looking around for a date, so it wasn't like he had to give much consideration to sex. He hadn't wanted to.

 _Does_ he want to, now?

Steve doesn't make him think about it. Bucky isn't ready to try, so for a while, they're mostly as they were before. That is, Bucky relies on Steve for things an adult should be perfectly capable of handling, Steve somehow acts like he doesn't mind, and the only difference is that occasionally they kiss.

At first, it doesn't really lead anywhere. It's just nice. Calming, and grounding, and something between the two of them that Bucky can hold onto. Sitting on the couch in the dark, quietly sighing against Steve's lips, he can forget everything that's happened, be something other than a broken ex-murder puppet or a pathetic imitation of a little kid.

But he can't shake the feeling that he's failing at something.

"Can I ask you a question?" he says tentatively one evening. It's after movie night, and the others have drifted off to various places. Only Steve and Bucky remain, nestled on the couch with Bucky's head against Steve's chest. He's been thinking about this for a few days, but he hasn't been able to bring himself to ask.

"Of course you can." Steve lazily winds his fingers through Bucky's hair.

"What we have now. If I never. If, hypothetically, I could never do more than what we were doing right now..."

"That would be just fine," Steve says immediately, "We talked about that, remember?"

"It's just, I kind of want to try," Bucky whispers against his collarbone. "More, I mean. But I'd have to be able to back out if I couldn't do it."

"Of course."

"I mean, out, right away, no questions asked." His pride won't be able to take explaining why he's failed at sex.

"Bucky, of course. I wouldn't want to hurt you."

"So, tonight, then?"

"Tonight?" Steve blinks, "Buck, we haven't really been doing this for very long. I was thinking we'd take it slower. Figure out what works best for both of us."

Oh. "Okay." 

"Buck," Steve says seriously, nudging Bucky up so that they're looking at each other, "You don't think you have to do any of this, do you?"

"Not _have to_ ," Bucky mutters, looking down at his lap. "Just..." 

"We've talked about this, haven't we?" He still looks so serious, and Bucky doesn't know how to explain. "We can't go into this with you feeling like you owe me. The last thing I want is to hurt you. You have to know that what you want matters."

Bucky has to look down at the couch as he realizes how right Steve is. In terms of sex, he hasn't been allowed to think that what he wants matters in—how many years?

 _What he wants matters._ The thought is slippery in his mind, hard to grasp. And, okay, Steve has a point. Maybe this is something Bucky should figure out before they get in bed and take their clothes off.

"We'll work up to it, okay?" Steve says, "We'll just see how it goes. But only what you want and when you want to, Bucky. For now..." he wraps an arm around Bucky's shoulders and draws him close again, resting his lips against Bucky's forehead. "...this is enough. There's no rush, I promise. You're enough, just as you are."

*

Steve starts by trying to get Bucky comfortable with his own body.

It's the arm, at first. The first time Steve tries to take his shirt off, he notices Bucky twisting his shoulder away before Bucky does. It's instinctive; The arm is hard metal, ice-cold. It's perfect for punching and ripping and grabbing. It can fire heavy weapons without getting bruised or broken. But it's not sensual, the cold unyielding fingers not designed for erotic play, and the arm itself only reminds Steve just where he came from.

And then there's the scarring over his shoulder and ribs. It takes a long time before he can even let Steve get his shirt all the way off. Which makes no sense, it's nothing Steve hasn't seen before, but not like this, not in bed. He used to be so goddamned _vain_ , Steve would tease him about being like a girl, taking so much time to fix up his clothes and his hair. But he was a good-looking guy and he knew it and...

Steve's hand goes there first, stroking his back and running over the metal of his shoulder. His fingertips trace patterns, back and forth, massaging the way Bucky likes, easing the ache from carrying the weight around. He runs his fingers along the scar tissue until Bucky's about as relaxed as he can get. He pulls his shirt over his head, leaning against Steve and letting him run his hands all over him, kissing his jaw in return.

It's when Steve's hand starts to slip lower that Bucky tenses up again. "Don't—"

Steve pulls away. "Sorry."

"No, it's not—" Bucky leans over, missing the gently roaming hands.

"I don't want to do anything that—"

"—not that I don't want—"

"—we don't have to—"

"I'm  _wearing,_ I—"

"Oh."

"Yeah." Bucky's face is so flaming hot. Any sort of mood that had been building up is now entirely dead. He's such an idiot. It's just habit now; when he gets ready for bed he puts on protection. It's kind of hard to take himself seriously when he's in a fucking pull-up.

An Iron Man pull-up. He's wearing an Iron Man pull-up. Bucky could _kill_ Tony.

Steve slips an arm around him. "It's not a big deal, Buck."

"Easy for you to say," Bucky mutters. He knows Steve isn't lying, that it really doesn't matter to him, but— "I. How many people want to sleep with someone who—I'm so—God, so many things are messed up, with me, and this is—" Steve's rubbing his back now, soothing, but Bucky's all worked up. "What grown man is afraid of the dark, or, or can't go to bed without fucking _diapers_?"

Steve's squeezing his shoulder. "You know I don't think any less of you. You know that, right? And—you're really not the only one. Sometimes that can happen."

Bucky tries very hard to disappear from this plane of existence. When that doesn't work, he makes an attempt at levity. "You know, some people put on the lace and frills. Me—" but it's not working, there's a catch in his voice and his eyes sting and it's so fucking ridiculous.  _He's_ ridiculous. Pathetic. His first attempt at sex, and he can hardly stand to take off his shirt. Then he can't take off his pants. And now, just to make it perfect, he's gonna start to _cry_.

Steve wraps his arm tight around Bucky's shoulders. "It's all right. This is just to see what you're comfortable with, right? And now we know."

And so they end up just watching a movie, Bucky curled into Steve's arm, Steve leaning over to kiss at his neck and shoulder, hands moving slowly over his chest. He taps out little patterns with his fingers, rubs soothing circles into Bucky's stomach. It's nice. Steve's hands are steady and even, demanding nothing, and so Bucky just lays there and lets himself be pulled into it, occasionally turning up to give a few kisses in return.

He's not sure if he'd exactly call this erotic, but it isn't  _not_ erotic, either. He's starting to stir a little down there. In his fucking Iron Man pull-ups. That's when the first traces of anxiety begin running through him. Okay, he's not ready for that. He thought he was, but he's not. In his early days at the Tower, waking up hard had sent him immediately into an ice-cold shower, sickened. He doesn't get so bad about it now, but something in him, some very  _little_ part of him, is whimpering that this is dirty and bad and wrong.

Steve can tell before Bucky even makes a sound. His hand goes still. "Want to stop?"

Bucky nods very fast. "Daddy," he can't help mumbling, even though he's not really sure what mindset he's in.

"Yeah?" His voice sounds so concerned that Bucky can't help melting the rest of the way, even though he really tried to stay big. "Want your shirt back, buddy?"

"'Kay," he mumbles, and Daddy helps him put it on because Bucky's gotten a little shaky. As soon as he's dressed, he flops over on his tummy. His pull-up will probably hide what happened, but just to be  _sure._

Daddy rubs his back and tells him a story, and by the time it's done, the problem has gone away. Bucky breathes a sigh of relief into the pillow.

*

It takes a few days for them to try again; Steve feels horribly guilty even though Bucky assures him that no damage was done, that he did everything right, that he wasn't little when they were playing around. Really, even with the hitches, this is going about as well as Bucky could have expected it to, given the circumstances. But it made Steve nervous, and Bucky has to keep reassuring him that he really is fine.

And he is. But that night has left Bucky with questions to consider, a certain curiosity about his own biology. For a long time, his stomach has turned cold at the thought of getting hard, which is something he really should have thought about earlier. Probably, though he hates to admit it, something he should have told Steve about _before_ getting into bed with him.

He wishes there were someone he could ask about this, but his gut twists in shame at the thought.  _I'm scared of my dick getting hard. I mean, I want it to, but when it does I freak the hell out. What do I do?_

He decides to take matters, literally, into his own hands. In the shower, and only in the shower. He knows JARVIS probably isn't judging, and one cyborg ex-assassin re-learning how to jerk it is probably far from the most questionable thing the AI has had to bear witness to. But still.

He doesn't let himself think about anything in particular. He's too afraid his thoughts will stray back to the times Pierce held him still and reached down for him, pleasure and guilt entwined, sickening in his stomach. But it's not as hard when he's on his own, when he's focused only on the rhythm of the action. There's no pressure, and if he fails, no one has to know.

"There's no failing, Buck," Steve says patiently, when Bucky finally confides what he's been doing, "We're just seeing what you can and can't do right now."

They're sitting on the edge of the bathtub on Bucky's floor. Bucky hadn't realized how long he'd taken in the shower. He tends to lose track of time in there, but apparently he's been taking even longer than usual, because Steve had knocked on the door to see if he was okay. 

"There is for me, though," Bucky admits, staring at the ground, "It's just—humiliating. How much I can't do, how long it's gonna take me to figure shit out."

"Buck," Steve says softly, "You were  _tortured._ This isn't  _failing_ , this is what  _happens_ to people who've been through shit like you have. Please, Bucky, go easyon yourself. You're not failing at anything."

He stares at the bath mat, feeling some of the tension leaving him.

He's also, embarrassingly enough, feeling something else. Even though he's just spilled himself down the shower drain. There must be something in the serum that makes this possible, he thinks, and then,  _how_ is this possible. It's the proximity, the intimacy, Steve's shoulder pressed to his still-damp skin with only Bucky's towel between them.

"It's good, though," Steve says, "Whether we're doing this or not, it's probably a good thing that you're taking some time for yourself. Figuring out what you want."

Bucky hasn't actually been allowing himself to think about anything other than the physical elements of it, what responds when he touches where. Now, though...now...

"We could try again tonight," he blurts out, "If you wanted to."

Steve blinks. "Tonight?"

He's not using his best judgment, not thinking with his head. He knows it, and Steve knows it. He blushes, turning away. A long time ago, he thinks, he'd have known the right thing to say. He's sitting here, wearing nothing but a towel, and there was a time he could have teased and flirted and now he just doesn't know how. He's in uncharted territory, slow and uncertain.

"You sure?" he asks, and Bucky nods shyly. Steve gets up and throws his clothes at him. "We can go to my room. But no pressure, okay? We get as far as we get. There's no failing."

The clothes don't stay on for long.

Bucky takes them off as soon as they get into Steve's bed. If he's not comfortable being naked around Steve, there's no point of even trying to continue. Steve turns the TV on while he rubs Bucky's back, trying to get him relaxed.

They left off watching Disney last time Bucky was in here, so that's what automatically starts playing when the TV goes back on. Bucky realizes he might have sex to the background noise of  _The Little Mermaid_ and wonders, not for the first time, how this became his life.

Like before, Steve gives particular focus to the metal arm. His fingers trace the ridges and joints, and that arm isn't as sensitive as the flesh one, but Bucky's still aware of the warmth tracing up and around the cold metal. This is new; a shiver works its way up from the arm and down his spine. It's a balm to a part of him he hadn't realized was still hurting. Pierce hated the arm, always made Bucky keep it on his opposite side. Drew back from the icy touch. Bucky remembered the withering shame every time he realized a part of him had made his Daddy flinch away.

Steve presses a kiss to the star on his shoulder, and it feels feathery and faint against the metal. Warmth shoots through him, blooming in his chest. And the fingers that wander over the line between flesh and metal aren't hesitant. Bucky knows his scarring well, knows where the rough pink lines are the angriest, stark against his pale skin, but Steve goes over them with equal tenderness. 

Bucky can't remember  _not_ feeling broken, at least not as an adult, in all his time at the Tower. It's a curious feeling. He closes his eyes and exhales softly, leaning into the touch. Steve kisses his hair, whispers, "Okay to keep going?"

Bucky nods.

"All right. I figure, though, we should plan this out so we don't end up going anywhere you're not comfortable with," Steve murmurs. "What do you want to do tonight?"

Bucky freezes.

Steve immediately pulls back. "You all right, Buck?"

He nods, feeling the sudden realization wash over him like a tidal wave. He _can_ do this. He _can_. Except...

"I...don't know how," he mumbles, feeling heat rushing into his cheeks. He realizes that, following years of being told what to do and how, he'd kind of just assumed Steve would take charge and Bucky could just follow his lead. He's so stupid; he should have realized that's not how this was going to work. He can't meet Steve's eyes. Of everything that was taken from him, why did  _this_ have to be included? Bucky knows he was with girls, back in the day. He remembers at least a couple of them, if not more. But he can't—he can't quite—

There's everything Pierce taught him, but Bucky couldn't stand to have those lessons coloring _this_. He can't do anything that reminds him of Pierce, and that rules out a lot. And so he's got nothing to draw on, and damn it, he should have fucking expected this. Just like everything else in his life, he's clueless and humiliated and something he should know has been lost to him. If this were anyone but Steve, they'd be incredulous, maybe laughing, because what kind of man can't—

"Hey," Steve's got his shoulders, squeezing. "It's all right. We can figure this out. It's okay if it takes a while. It's okay if we don't figure everything out tonight." His fingers flicker over Bucky's stomach. "Can I..."

Bucky nods. Steve's hand slides up to his chest, and Steve leans down to kiss his collarbone. It's benign. Maybe even a little silly. When Bucky is a child, Steve kisses his scrapes and bruises the same way to make them better. It's comforting then and comforting now; it's _safe_. 

Steve carefully guides Bucky so that they're sitting facing each other. Bucky's still embarrassed over just how much he doesn't know, and he can't look Steve in the eyes, but Steve just leans forward to press a kiss against his chest. His stomach. Still so gentle and slow, still not demanding anything. And after a while, Bucky manages to relax again. Steve's eyes are closed in apparent contentment, and Bucky's content too, could just sit here the entire night with Steve kissing him all over his body.

Working his way down and then back up, Steve kisses his knees, his calves, the insides of his thighs, and that's what gets the feeling surging in Bucky's stomach, then lower. He's starting to get hard, and the old anxieties begin racing through him. But Steve doesn't even focus on that, not at first, just keeps stroking and kissing the rest of him, giving Bucky time to relax, to bring a stop to it if he wants to. When Bucky doesn't, Steve kisses him there, softly, between his legs, a little smile growing on his lips. Bucky watches him, utterly transfixed. It's only when Steve opens his mouth that he snaps back to his senses.

"That. Not yet," he manages, and damn it, he didn't want this to happen. He didn't want his past to ruin this, he really didn't, but Bucky has too many goddamn memories of choking on Pierce's cock. The thought is fraught with fear and shame and something else, something sort of sick-feeling, despair. Bucky can't bring that here. Can't deal with that right now.

Steve comes back up, searching Bucky's face for signs of trauma. "You okay?"

"Yeah," Bucky mutters, "Just don't—don't want to do that. Yet." Or maybe ever, but he doesn't want to admit to himself how very limited he is. How many things he may never be able to do.

"You all right to do anything else?" Bucky nods. He's not panicking and he's still half-hard despite the shock. He might still be able to salvage this.

He tries not to think about what a risk he's taking. He doesn't think his pride can handle failing at this twice.

Steve looks like he's thinking hard for a second, then he's sliding off his own shirt. This is something Bucky can do. He fumbles at Steve's clothes, Steve kissing against his shoulder and neck. He doesn't stop when the clothes are off, and the moment's not as scary as he thought it would be. They're both naked, and he'd thought that would seem like a really big deal, but somehow, it isn't. He's still highly conscious of his broken, mismatched body, though, even though Steve's face shows not a ripple of shock or disgust at the sight. 

In fact, Steve's looking him up and down in something akin to  _awe_. Bucky, unaccustomed to this kind of attention, leans forward to kiss him. He's practically in Steve's lap, pressed close to him, and he can feel Steve growing hard against his leg. He doesn't look, though. Something about looking might shatter the tentative ease they have going on now. 

"Okay to keep going?" Steve murmurs against his cheek.

Bucky nods. "Only—I don't see how we're going to do this."

"Let's just see..." Steve lies back against the pillows, inviting Bucky to get on top of him. This is another condition of their relationship; until they better know what Bucky can handle, Steve cannot be the one to top. But then, Bucky's said he can't handle insertional sex, and so he can't really see how this is going to work. But Steve seems to have some idea, so Bucky swings one leg over him, letting Steve take hold of his hips and guide him forward. His own cock is pressed against Bucky's ass, but he's clearly not set up to enter, and at first Bucky doesn't understand.

"Just try it against me like this?" Steve murmurs, positioning Bucky over his stomach. It's awkward at first, but then Steve's muscles go taut, his hips bucking up, and they manage to hit a rhythm. Steve grabs onto Bucky's ass, guiding him faster and faster, and Bucky gasps, bracing himself against Steve's shoulders. His hair swings wildly in front of him as they begin to go harder.

Bucky's thrusting himself in earnest against Steve's stomach, Steve himself rubbing his length along the back of Bucky's thigh. His hands skim over Steve's chest, down to his stomach to give himself better pressure.

It's a little weird, sure, but good, honest, and one hundred percent theirs. No one made Bucky do this in the brightly colored bedroom and dinosaur pajamas. This isn't one of the games he played with bated breath. This is new, and good, and it's his. The revelation leaves him breathless. This is  _good_. This is turning out  _good_.

It's still hard, when he begins to shake with the sensation, when it begins to center itself and mount in intensity, and for a moment he thinks he's going to give in to the feeling that he shouldn't let go. But there's Steve's guiding hands keeping him in the moment, he's here and not with Pierce and the feeling is keeping him almost high, his head clear. He's here, he's okay, he's better than okay. He gasps as he spills over onto Steve's stomach, slowing down, savoring it, and Steve must have been waiting for him, because a few seconds later he shudders and moans and Bucky feels it spurting down his leg. 

Coming down now, he collapses against Steve, and he's being held, his hair stroked, Steve asking him "Still doing okay?" Bucky nods against his chest, pressing himself closer. There's a dangerous part of him creeping near, wanting to ask if he was good, but he manages to push it back. They lie there, hands tracing softly over each others' bodies.

"Hey, Buck, can I tell you something?" Steve whispers a minute later, "I had no idea what I was doing, either."

Then they're both laughing a little, quietly in the dark, Bucky huffing out a breath against Steve's bare shoulder. He's so goddamn relieved. It's Steve. It's just Steve here. He doesn't even remember why he got so fucking scared in the first place.

He's a little bit shaky and tired and even though he isn't five, Bucky doesn't put up much of a protest when Steve picks him up and sets him on his feet and helps him to get dressed. He's trembling so violently that it's all he can do to stay upright.

"You okay?" Steve asks him again, carefully mopping him up with a T-shirt.

"Mmhm," Bucky mumbles sleepily into his shoulder. He is okay, sort of, it's just that the last time he felt this kind of post-release exhaustion, last time he could smell sex on him and around him, he was curling up to sleep next to Pierce. Memories threaten just below the surface, making his stomach flip and his hands shake. But he's holding onto Steve, Steve's gently stroking his back and sliding his pajama pants over his hips. Bucky relaxes into the touch, letting himself be guided and cared for. He's here, here and now, and he's taking this back. Pierce can't have this. He hasn't stolen it forever. This, whatever this was, this is Bucky's. This is his. This is his.

He sighs and presses a kiss to Steve's bare shoulder. "I'm okay. Pretty damn good, actually."

"Good, Buck. I'm glad." Steve whispers against his hair. Then Bucky's being scooped up and tucked into bed. For a minute the space around him is empty of Steve, and he lets out an impatient little noise before he thinks better of it. Then his face gets hot. "I'm coming right back," Steve promises, a laugh in his voice. "I've just got to get some clothes on, Buck."

Bucky buries his face in the pillow, wondering how he can act so much like a five-year-old when he isn't actually five. But then Steve's sliding into the bed next to him, wrapping his arms around him, and Bucky quickly drifts off to sleep.

*

When Bucky wakes up, he's feeling really little.

He comes out of a horrible, sad dream to see Daddy was looking at him with concern. He quickly brushes at his face; he must have been crying in his sleep. Tasha says he does that sometimes. 

Daddy hugs him tight until he feels less sad. Bucky nuzzles into his shirt, picking up the smell of him, absorbing the comfort and waiting for the loneliness to ease. There's another smell, too, like last night's grown-up games, and Bucky remembers Daddy taking care of him last night, cleaning him up and tucking him into bed. Suddenly he isn't lonely anymore. He nuzzles again. "All better."

"That's good," Daddy whispers against his ear, "Want to talk about it?"

Bucky shakes his head. That was the dream where he's looking for his last daddy and can't find him anywhere, but Bucky really doesn't want to bring him into this. His doctors always say it's okay for Bucky to miss his last daddy, and feel however else he feels, but he still worries that'll make Daddy feel like Bucky doesn't love him enough.

"All right," Daddy gives him a squeeze, "Would you like to get in the shower while I start breakfast?"

He nods. He isn't wet, but he there are probably some remnants of last night's grown-up games on him. 

Last night's grown-up games. Bucky smiles to himself, under the spray, thinking of the way Daddy took care of him after. Thinking of Daddy kissing his tummy. It makes him feel really special and really loved.

He doesn't think about playing the actual games. No matter how much Miriam tells him that it isn't bad to have that stuff in his head, that the way his body reacts isn't dirty, Bucky doesn't like it. But last night, when he was big, he liked it a lot. it felt really special. And now Bucky's smiling again.

But then he feels a little guilty. It's not that he doesn't like when Daddy takes care of him. It makes him feel really safe, and loved. But the more Daddy insists Bucky will never have to do anything to pay him back, the more Bucky feels bad that he doesn't.

This is something they can do when they're on equal footing. Where Bucky can have a normal relationship where they both give something. Daddy keeps saying he doesn't have to, but Bucky really _wants_ to, at least when he's big. And last night, he did  _good._ At least, he thinks he did good.

He asks Daddy at the table after his shower, while he bites the heads off his apple bunnies. "Daddy? Last night, did I do good?"

An apple slice twitches in Daddy's hand. "Bucky, we don't worry about that when you're little, remember?"

That's not an answer. "But  _did_ I, though?" Doesn't Daddy understand it's important for him to _know_?

Daddy hesitates for so long that Bucky's tummy starts to constrict, but then he says, "Yeah, Buck, last night was great. For me, anyway, and I hope it was good for you, too. But I really mean it, okay? You don't have to worry about this stuff when you're little. That's your time to just be a kid."

So Bucky goes back to eating his apple bunnies. It's always strange to remember that his Daddy now really cares about him not getting hurt.

He squirms uncomfortably. It always makes him feel guilty to think bad things about his last Daddy.  _He's gone,_ Bucky hears Miriam say,  _he's gone and he can't hear what you're thinking about him. No one can. What's in your head is yours, James._

And sometimes, Bucky can't help but think his last daddy really wasn't a good daddy at all. And maybe, just maybe, Bucky really did deserve better.

He has to hold tight to Bucky Bear, who's also getting a little nervous about Bucky having these thoughts. But he thinks it again, just to test it out.  _My thoughts are all mine, and I think my last daddy was a bad daddy to me, and my daddy now is better._ _  
_

He chomps the head off another apple bunny and smiles to himself.

*

The discovery of what they can do is a major breakthrough, and Bucky spends the next several nights in Steve's bed. If the first time was good, they quickly find ways to get a lot better.

Sometimes it doesn't go so well, but Steve's pretty good about taking care of him, getting him past the hard stuff. He holds Bucky and kisses away his tears and listens to what must be gut-wrenching descriptions of the things Pierce made Bucky do. Of course Steve's concerned about hurting him, but Bucky is determined to take this back. There's so much to be explored, and Bucky wants it bad. Steve nods in understanding, but Bucky can tell he still gets worried.

He is meticulous, as always, in his caregiving role, and Bucky has to admit that's what makes this all possible. He tends to get a little shaky even when the night has gone well, and so he spends those evenings slumped across Steve's lap being held and reassured. Steve tells him he did fine, everything's fine. Sometimes he has Bucky recite a list of things he can hear, see, feel, just to remind him that he's here and not back with Pierce. 

He always makes sure to get them both dressed after any kind of messing around. That way, Bucky won't wake up little and naked. They both agree that wouldn't end well. There was one time that Bucky panicked and regressed. He completely froze, and he couldn't say no because no is bad no isn't allowed—

But Steve realized something was wrong and he stopped, and Bucky managed to say "Bucky Bear", the safeword they'd agreed upon. Instantly, Steve was dressing Bucky and comforting him and putting on a movie. Later, when he was calm, Steve asked him if he wanted to talk about it, praising him for letting him know when he wasn't okay. In the moment, it hadn't been pleasant, but the experience had left Bucky feeling reassured and a whole lot safer. Daddy had stopped and he hadn't gotten mad and he cared about what Bucky wanted, and even though Bucky had known it deep down, it was kind of hard to believe it until he saw it firsthand.

Really, everything's going as well as they could have hoped.

But they still haven't tried any form of conventional sex. Those have all been tainted by Pierce, and Bucky's afraid to even go there.

And he really doesn't want to bring it up. Doesn't want to throw it in Steve's face, how much of a risk this is. How much Pierce got from him that Bucky cannot give anymore.

"Give yourself some  _time,_ Buck," Steve says, exasperated, because for some reason Bucky can't manage to keep this shit from him.

They're naked in Steve's bed, Steve rubbing Bucky's shoulder where the weight of the arm makes it ache. Their first round has left Bucky a little tired, but still up for more. His shoulder has put up a protest, however, so they've taken a break, and somehow Steve manages to get the confession out of Bucky.

"You don't owe me. Anyway, it's been what, three weeks? I didn't think we'd be here in three weeks. Honestly, Buck, even if you do want to take those things back, give yourself time. Be patient with yourself."

"I know you're right," Bucky sighs, "It just sucks that...that  _he_ got so much, and now I'm here with you and I  _want_ to, Steve, and I can't." He flushes. He had to go and bring up Pierce now, here.

"This isn't about him," Steve says softly, without a trace of the bitterness he usually gets whenever Pierce is mentioned, "This is about what you're okay with right now."

"Yeah..." Bucky sighs, pressing back into Steve's massaging hands.

Steve's kissing his shoulder, where metal meets skin. Gradually, he starts moving down. "What if..." he says slowly, hands running up Bucky's thighs, "What if I did this for you? And you wouldn't have to do anything back?"

He's paused, waiting, and Bucky considers. He immediately feels bad that he can't reciprocate. He already knows without thinking too hard that he can't. But he squashes the feeling down. Reminds himself Steve means it. Steve is saying he _wants_ to do this, for Bucky. The tentative thought blooms: maybe it would be good to let Steve do something just for him. Help him feel more secure in his role as an equal. Help him remember that Steve can want to please him, no expectations attached.

"Yeah, I think," he decides, "I'd like to try."

And so Steve takes Bucky in his hands, and then, guiding him back against the pillows, in his mouth. Soft, at first, slow, as if there's no real purpose to any of this. Calm, drawing it out with his tongue. His eyes are closed in apparent pleasure, and Bucky observes the look on his face, fascinated.

 _Don't take your eyes off me_ , Pierce used to say, but Bucky's just enjoying watching Steve enjoying this. Just studying, re-learning how this whole thing is supposed to work.

It's a pretty engaging lesson, he reflects, as Steve grabs onto his thighs and pulls himself in harder. Almost involuntarily, Bucky's hips jerk up a little. And then he's not thinking, only feeling, only working himself into the rhythm. His hands clench on the sheets. The metal one probably tears into the fabric, and he doesn't have to be afraid of that, of being punished, and for some reason the little revelation almost makes him laugh, spurs him on. As the sensations reach their peak his breath catches, a moan escaping him, his head falling back. Steve's tongue presses into him, drawing out the sensation as Bucky gasps and comes.

And as Steve moves back up, he's hard, and Bucky pulls him forward. He guides Steve's length in between his thighs, easily the best spot for this, they've found. Steve kisses his shoulder, his neck, grabbing onto his arms. He's pretty far gone; it isn't long before Bucky feels him spill over. 

After, he smiles and mops Bucky up with his shirt. He catches sight of the rips in the sheets where Bucky's fingers poked through, and he rubs at them with a little laugh. Feeling shy all of a sudden, Bucky curls himself against Steve's side, receiving a kiss on the top of his head. The two of them hold onto each other, coming down, Steve running his hands over Bucky's body.

"Good?" he murmurs, and Bucky nods against his shoulder, smiling.

"Good," he whispers back, reveling in the triumph over another milestone, another reclamation. He _feels_ freed, just for now, in a way that he never has before. In the back of his mind he knows he's not. He knows he's still all tangled up in traumas and limitations, but for now, he can just celebrate this. Feel freed. Start to drift off, spent by tonight's endeavors.

Steve's rubbing his stomach in little soothing motions, although every so often his fingers skitter lower. Even as worn-out as he is, Bucky feels his dick begin to twitch again. "You're doing that on purpose," he mumbles, whapping Steve with his pillow, "Don't you ever get  _tired?_ "

"I could do this all night." Steve answers, struggling to keep a straight face.

Bucky groans. " _Steve,_ " he hits him again with the pillow, "I'm  _sleepy._ " He ducks, and Steve's pillow sails over his head, hitting the wall across the room.

Then they're pillow-fighting in earnest, and Bucky's laughing because it feels so much like something they would have done back in the old days. The only difference being that now he can't pin Steve to the bed and muss his hair; he gets slammed back into the mattress for his attempt, and Steve's jabbing him in the ribs, right where he's most ticklish. "All  _right,_ " he says breathlessly, "All right, you win. You fight dirty, Steve."

Steve laughs and flops on top of him like a sack of bricks. "You ass," Bucky mutters, running a hand up Steve's back and drawing him in for a kiss.

The warm, heavy weight on top of him is soothing. Worn out from the night's exertions, Steve's hands running slowly over his skin, he's ready to crash right out. "Bonus round in the morning," he mumbles, feeling the soft kiss on his ear in response, and then he's out like a light, sleeping better than he's slept in seventy goddamn years.

*

The fear is enveloping, pinning his arms to his body and constricting his ribs, and even without remembering what caused it, he can barely breathe when he wakes—

Cold and wet. Cold and wet and tangled in the dark with another heavy body. Bucky's breathing stops altogether, and then he remembers where he is.

The shame flares, hot and instantaneous, choking out his voice so that all he can do is nudge at Steve with a shaking hand. What he really wants to do is crawl out of the bed and slip off to his room and quite possibly die there. To have a night of sex interrupted by  _this..._ Bucky honestly cannot imagine anything worse.

Steve's hugging him tight against his chest the second he's awake. "Oh, Buck. Sweetheart, it's okay."

He's not going to start fucking crying. He isn't. He  _isn't..._

Tears are falling silently onto Steve's arm. Bucky's eyes squeeze shut, and still there are tears. In every matter, his body betrays him. He's shaking and sniffling and completely frozen up, just wanting tonight to be over.

"Don't worry about it, okay? We're gonna get in the shower. It's okay, Bucky. Really." But it's not. It's the farthest thing from okay.

Steve gently guides him off the soaked sheets, kissing his cheek and steering him toward the bathroom. Under the shower spray he is limp, his head hanging, watching water drip from his hair while Steve gently washes him with a cloth. He lathers up Bucky's hair with shampoo and scrubs him all over with soft little motions, murmuring words of comfort. He's completely taken charge, and with Bucky feeling so pathetic and miserable it isn't long before he's little and curled in a ball at Daddy's feet, hugging onto his knees. Being taken care of is helping him calm down, but he still feels so deeply sick with himself. He's the biggest disappointment ever.

Daddy leans down to rub the top of his head. He hands Bucky the cloth, saying he might feel more comfortable washing himself down there. Bucky takes it with a shaking hand. He wants Daddy to keep petting his hair and talking to him. He needs to hear that he hasn't been bad, that Daddy still loves him, that he isn't filthy and pathetic and—

Daddy's hand is on top of Bucky's, stilling it. "Hey. Hey, don't hurt yourself," he murmurs, and Bucky realizes he has scrubbed his thighs red. Daddy turns the water off then, but Bucky still doesn't feel clean.

Daddy wraps him in a soft towel and kind of fluffs him dry. He's still taking meticulous care of Bucky, toweling and brushing his hair, helping him step into new pajamas, hugging him tight. "I'm sorry," Bucky manages to whisper into his shoulder. "Daddy, I'm sorry."

"You don't have anything to be sorry for. It's not your fault." It's reassuring to hear Daddy say it, but—

"This was supposed to be our time to play the grown-up games," Bucky whispers, "I mess up _everything_."

"You haven't messed up anything. I promised I'd take care of you." But he shouldn't _have_ to take care of him, not now. Bucky should at least be able to manage a little grown-up time where Daddy doesn't have to deal with all his problems.

His bed doesn't have plastic sheets like Bucky's does, and the mattress is soaked. Bucky should help him clean and flip it, but he's too upset to do anything but shake until Daddy guides him away from the bed.

"Tomorrow I'll get protected sheets, just in case. I should have done that already." Bucky's face is burning hot. He _hates_ being so needy and weak all the time, and even though he knows better, he's still just waiting for the day Daddy tells him that he's done. That he wants someone  _normal_ who can give back all the things that Daddy gives and doesn't make stupid problems all the time. "Come on, don't beat yourself up, honey. It happens."

Bucky never, ever wants this to happen again. Daddy says it really doesn't matter, and leads him by the hand to the living room. Bucky understands what he's doing as soon as he starts setting the couches and chairs on their sides. Blanket forts _always_ make things better. Bucky goes over to build alongside him, and by the time they're all done, he's feeling a lot less upset.

Before long, they're resting on couch cushions on the floor, lying face-to-face in the flickering light from the TV. Bucky really didn't want to be in the dark right now. When he's feeling littlest and most vulnerable, that's when he gets confused and feels like his last daddy could maybe come back. Bucky needs to be able to see Daddy and Bucky Bear, needs to hear Disney playing quietly in the background. His doctors suggested those things when they helped him make a list of strategies that keep him remembering what's real. 

Daddy is real, warm and safe and strong, promising that everything's okay and he'll never be upset with Bucky for having an accident.

"I'm still sorry," Bucky feels like he needs to explain, now that he's calm enough to talk. "I wanted it to be our time when you didn't have to take care of me. But you always end up having to take care of me anyway. I don't mean to. It just happens."

"I really don't mind taking care of you. You're so hard on yourself, lamb." Daddy gently strokes his cheek. "I promise, whether you're little or not, there's nowhere else in the world I'd rather be than here with you right now."

Bucky feels like he's glowing and he has to hide his face in his blanket. "Really?"

"Really, Buck. I mean it."

Bucky hugs his pillow, quivering with affection and love. Daddy pets his hair to calm him again, and before long he's drifting off. Crying and then building the fort made him extra tired, but he falls asleep feeling kind of happy and really safe despite everything that happened tonight.

*

Bucky wakes to bright sunlight and the smell of breakfast cooking

He can tell it's late in the morning. Steve must have turned off his alarm to let him sleep. His doctors aren't going to be happy.

Then he remembers what  _happened_ last night, why he woke up on the couch cushions and not in bed. He immediately opts to hide his face in his pillow and never leave this blanket fort again.

The apple-cinnamon smell gets past even the pillow barrier, and his traitorous stomach growls. And anyway, tempting as it may be to remain in this fort for the rest of his life, he can't really see it as a viable option.

Well, he's sure Natasha wouldn't mind. And his therapists could probably be persuaded to hold sessions inside.

Bucky Bear reports that Steve's footsteps are approaching. Bucky sits up, rubbing his eyes, as a breakfast tray appears in the fort entrance. There's a tall pink smoothie, a plate of sausages, and a tray of muffins. Bucky Bear's nose identifies these as the source of the highly suspicious cinnamon temptation in the air.

His meds are also rolling around on an empty plate. Bucky scoops them into his hand and swallows them down, then busies himself with breakfast. He can't look at Steve.

"Sleep well?" he asks, and Bucky nods. "Want to talk about it?" Bucky shakes his head, hair hiding his face.

But then the words tumble out of him, unbidden. "Shit. Steve, I'm sorry. I just, I hate it."

"I know you do," Steve says softly, "I think—I think it's okay for you to hate it, Buck. I know it's not fun. It just worries me how much you beat yourself up over it. It's not your fault."

"I know. It's just, it sucks, for that to happen when we'd just—when we were—"

"It was bound to happen sooner or later." Steve rolls a honey bottle toward Bucky Bear, who sniffs at it suspiciously before accepting it. He won't be taken in by the beguilement of apple cinnamon. _Someone_ has to stay on their guard around here. 

"I guess." It's unpleasant to admit it, but Steve's right. This problem doesn't seem to be going away, and no matter how careful Bucky's tried to be, he slipped up last night. If they keep doing this, he might wet Steve's bed again. 

The jeering thought pokes at the back of his mind: why is Steve even willing to fuck him? How could Bucky ever expect anyone to want him?

"I hate when," he says carefully, poking at a muffin with his metal hand. He's struggling with how to phrase it, how he can get it out. Confessions are a risk; Bucky has to reach over for Bucky Bear before he can put the rest of the words together. "I hate when I just, I almost get there...feel like I can just have something be like it used to be. And then something  _happens_ and I _know_ I should be used to it by now, but it'll just  _hit_ me so hard, all over again. I'm not...not the same anymore, and I can never get that back." He laughs bitterly, crumbling the muffin in his shiny fingers. "How can I miss something so bad when I barely remember it?"

Steve's staring. Bucky can't look up, but he can tell. "Bucky, you don't have to be the same as you were. I mean, you can miss the way things used to be. I do, sometimes. Everything changed so fast my head's still spinning. You and me, we can't go back. But we don't have to try. What we've got here, that's good enough. _You're_ good enough right now, and I love you just as much as I ever did. I promise."

"It's just hard," Bucky sniffles, reaching over for the honey bottle. He's going to need Bucky Bear for a while, so he might as well make sure he has enough food. "I remember enough. The man I was, he was...competent. People liked him, he...and now...I'm just weak. And I can't do anything and half the time I wouldn't even know where to start. You spend most of your time having to do things for me that a six-year-old could do on their own. It's  _embarrassing_ , Steve. It's so fucking...even when I'm not five, you pretty much always have to take care of me." The irony isn't lost on him, either. "And then...when I remember everything I've done...it's just. I can't feel like I'm worth it. I'm not, not  _good_ anymore, not like I used to be."

"Bucky," Steve says, scooting over to sit next to him, "I know, okay? It sucks to feel like you should be able to do things you can't. It sucks when everyone around you can do it, and it sucks when you have to rely on someone to do it all for you. I've been there. But, hey, remember what you used to say to me when I got down on myself about it? It's okay if you don't."

Bucky doesn't. He wishes he does, because it sounds like it's something important, but his mind draws a blank. 

"You used to tell me we were family. We'd always stick together. You'd say I never owed you, for anything you'd done, because that's what family does for each other." Steve's voice breaks, and shit, if he cries Bucky's definitely going to start. "There was a time when I didn't really have any family left. And the way I was, I could never have paid you back. But you took care of me anyway. So don't you dare think you don't deserve the same thing. You _are_ worth it. You're worth everything. I'm here for you, Buck. We're family."

For a while, there's only the sound of the two of them sniffling. Then Bucky says hoarsely, "You never seemed weak, though. Not to me." He doesn't remember much, but he remembers that. There was always too much of Steve to be contained in that thin little body.

"But I was," Steve says seriously, "And sick. It wasn't pretty. I seem to recall puking on you a lot. Or, when I was really anemic, I'd be too tired to get out of bed for days. So you went out. Worked, and did most of the chores. Sometimes you were barely keeping me alive. People'd say I wasn't worth the effort."

"I think I'd try and get in bed with you to keep you warm. You were always cold," Bucky muses, feeling sick with anger at anyone who would suggest Steve wasn't worth anything.

"Yeah, Buck. You did. You'd always complain about my feet touching you."

"They were like ice!" Bucky remembers, laughing. "You were such a little shit, too. You'd always press your feet up against me." He doesn't have to look up. He knows all too well the big sappy smile that must be growing on Steve's face.

"Tell me more about me," he urges. "Please?" They haven't talked about the past very much. Bucky can tell it burns Steve, how much has been zapped out of Bucky's head.

"What do you want to know?"

"Anything." Bucky holds out a crumbled piece of muffin, which Bucky Bear grudgingly accepts. It is an exceptional muffin, worthy of an exceptional bear. 

"You used to watch me draw," Steve muses, reloading his plate. "Used to try and get art stuff for me, too. The good stuff. I'd get so mad. You couldn't afford it."

No matter how much Bucky tries, he can't bring the memory back to him. "Do you still draw? You should."

"My therapist's always saying I should...what's the phrase...I should find a healthy emotional outlet."

"Oh, yeah, I've heard that. Apparently punching things isn't one. Hey, speaking of which. I used to pull you out of fights, right?"

"Plenty of times," Steve says, "Mostly you tried to stop them before they happened."

"Not successfully, I bet."

"Well, one time, when you were drunk, you did put me over your shoulder and carry me away." Steve's shaking his head. " _So_ embarrassing."

Bucky bursts out laughing. "Oh, I wish I could remember that. Were you mad?"

"So mad. I was whaling on you, telling you to put me down, I...may have been a bit drunk myself. You were probably saving my stupid ass, but all I wanted was to go back and give Billy Edmunds a piece of my mind."

"You dumbass." Bucky leans up to kiss Steve. He tastes like apple cinnamon. "Nice to see some things never change."

"I don't get in fights drunk anymore," Steve protests.

"Only 'cause you can't  _get_ drunk." Bucky shakes his head. Another thought occurs to him. "'Till the end of the line. I said that. I remember, I said that. I know it was important. But I don't remember  _when._

He's said something wrong, he can tell instantly. It's not just on Steve's face; his whole body gets sad. "Sorry." This is just what he was talking about. Whenever things seem good, Bucky ruins them. And he can't  _remember_ why that line is important, so how can he know what he messed up? He can't avoid it. This will  _always_ happen to him.

"No, you're okay. It's just, that was right after my mom died. Didn't know how I was going to get by. Was too proud to ask for help. I..." Steve shakes his head, "...probably needed it. And that's what you said. We lived together after that."

Hesitantly, Bucky reaches over, wrapping his arm around Steve. It doesn't come to him as easily as it did seventy years ago; lately it's always been Steve holding him, Steve comforting him, Steve taking charge. But if he notices how awkward and unsure Bucky is, he doesn't say anything, just leans into Bucky's shoulder. Bucky kisses the top of his head, feeling like he's probably doing it wrong. How has he forgotten how to comfort Steve? Of all the fundamental parts he lost, how has he never reclaimed this one?

But Steve presses himself closer, wrapping his arms around Bucky, and it feels okay. Natural. They sit like that for a while, Bucky running his hand up and down Steve's back.

He realizes he's tired, tired like he hasn't slept in days. Confessing feelings always leaves him worn-out. "My doctors won't be happy, but...I kind of want to sleep some more."

And so the two of them curl up on the cushions and Steve strokes his hair as he drifts back out.

*

Overall, it's not a very productive day.

Steve wakes up to find that all the muffins have been eaten, and so Bucky and his bear have to lie down until Bucky Bear's tummyache goes away. And by the time they're ready to get up again, it's dinnertime. Bucky appears at the table in his Hawkeye pajamas, even though Daddy usually tries to make sure he gets dressed every day.

It's not like he's completely unprepared, though. He brought his bow that shoots foam arrows, because if he's going to wear Hawkeye pajamas then he _has_ to have a bow.

He also gets a blanket because he's a little nervous the others will be able to tell he's still wearing a pull-up, and then Tasha wants a blanket too. So they pretty much spend dinnertime lying on the couch, snuggled in blankets and drinking smoothies.

Bucky can't really handle more than the smoothie because Bucky Bear's tummy is still a little upset, and Bucky doesn't feel good when his bear doesn't.

And when Bucky tells Tasha about the blanket fort, of course she wants to have a sleepover there, so they end up back in Daddy's living room.

But Bucky slept most of the day, so when bedtime comes around, he's not really tired, and Daddy ends up reading way more stories than Bucky's usually allowed to have.

"Daddy, can you tell me more about me from before?" He really liked that. It's rare for him to recall things from a long time ago, and even then, it all comes in bits and pieces. 

Daddy hesitates. "Buck, I just want to make sure you know—you really don't have to be like you were before. You're perfect just the way you are, lamb." he kisses Bucky's forehead and Bucky has to hide his face in Daddy's shoulder because he's smiling so hard.

He looks up again just in time to see Tasha turning away. He quickly wriggles out of Daddy's arms and scoots onto his other side so he can be between them both. Daddy would probably hug Tasha too, if she asked, and tell her she's perfect and all the other nice things he says to Bucky. But Tasha won't ask, and Bucky thinks she wouldn't like it if he tried to ask Daddy for her. So he just nudges Bucky Bear into her lap.

"I wanna know what I was like when I was a kid. The  _first_ time I was a kid. Please, Daddy? I don't remember almost  _any_ of that and I really  _really_ want to."

"All right, all right...uh, you hated school. I never understood why. You were a smart kid. You liked to read. You did my homework for me for a month, when I got really sick. But you didn't like being in school."

Bucky thinks back to when he met his relatives. He doesn't go to school now, but some of them do. Maybe he could ask them what it's like.

"Your sister used to boss you around. You and her would fight over things, too. Comic books. The last piece of pie. Your mom used to say she didn't know what to do with the two of you. Said sometimes she just wanted to knock your heads together."

"That's Becca, right?" It sounds like Becca. Bucky frowns. Wouldn't he be scared to behave that way? Wouldn't she? Weren't they afraid their mom would get too tired of it and just stop loving them?

"Yep," Steve says, "Um. Let me think. You couldn't sit still. Come to think of it, I think that's why you hated school. You always wanted to be outside, running around."

Bucky doesn't go outside much. It's not that he doesn't like it, but being out among lots of strange people is scary, and Bucky Bear always has to be on his guard. They both need plenty of downtime after an outing because it takes up so much energy. 

"You and me had lots of sleepovers, right? And we'd put couch cushions on the floor at your house 'cause your bed was too small for two of us."

"Yeah, Buck." Daddy's smiling, "And we'd talk about what we were gonna be like when we grew up."

Bucky remembers that, vaguely. Those couch cushions smelled a little musty, but also like something sweet, maybe cake or pie, something baking. He remembers his hand trailing across the slatted wood floor, the slant of moonlight cast over him through the window. The ceiling was cracked and had water stains that grew every year; Steve's mom was always worrying about it. "What did we say we were gonna be like?" Probably not like this.

"Oh, it changed every time we had a sleepover. I always said I was gonna go pro in baseball. Never would have happened, with asthma like I had, but you were too nice to say it."

"You could play now," Bucky suggests. Daddy should get to live out at least some of his dreams.

"Nah," Steve says, "I'm still not over the Dodgers. You always wanted to be a pitcher, though. That arm, you might consider it. But you always said you were gonna get married. Have lots of kids."

"That's weird," Bucky informs him, "I can't really imagine having kids." A lot of the time he _is_ a kid; how would that even work?

Daddy squeezes his shoulders and kisses him on the head. "Aw, come on, it's not that bad. Kinda grows on you."

He's smiling again, his face back in Daddy's shoulder.

That's when he realizes Tasha's been uncharacteristically quiet; when she doesn't realize he's looking, he catches her biting her lip and staring into her lap. She's told him a little about her past; she doesn't remember when she was taken and taught bad things, or anything before that. There's no one around to tell her what she was like when she was a kid the first time.

That makes Bucky really sad. "I think we should read more stories now," he says, "Maybe Tasha could pick one. But some other time, Daddy, can you tell me more about me?" He's been scared to ask, because it always makes Daddy sad when Bucky can't remember things. Everyone tells him he's not bad when it happens, but he still hates making Daddy sad.

"Of course, Bucky. Of course I can."

*

Bucky can't sleep.

It's pretty much his own fault for laying in bed all day, because now he's wide awake.

"Wanna raid the fridge?" Tasha suggests.

He kind of does. He only had a smoothie for dinner, and now he's hungry. But Daddy's room is right  _there_ , and Bucky isn't supposed to eat at night.

But now that Tasha mentions it, he _does_ reallywant food. 

"Kay."

They're pretty quiet, tiptoeing into Daddy's kitchen. They've both had a lot of stealth training, so they don't make a sound when they open the fridge.

"His food is so boring," Tasha whispers. 

There's a squirm of guilt in Bucky's tummy. "I know where Daddy keeps the cookies." 

Under Bucky Bear's direction, their mission goes smoothly, and soon they're back in the fort, dipping the cookies in milk. Tasha keeps watch over the food, saying that she doesn't want Bucky Bear to get another tummyache, and Bucky Bear is offended that she would presume he'd be stupid enough to make the same mistake twice. And anyway, they're butterscotch, and Bucky Bear is allergic. Bucky has to fumble around in the cushions for the honey bottle from this morning to get him to calm down.

"So," Tasha whispers, munching on a cookie, "You and Steve. Wanna tell me what's going on there?"

Bucky can't help it. He's smiling so big he has to look down at his lap.

"I _knew_ it!" Tasha whispers, whacking him with Red Panda, "Tell me, tell me, tell me!"

They were trying to keep it quiet until they were sure it would lead somewhere. Bucky's doctors know, because he tells them pretty much everything, and he thinks maybe Daddy has talked to Sam. He should have realized Tasha would figure it out.

"Um. I...kissed him by accident."

"How do you kiss someone by accident?" Tasha demands. "Never mind that, how long has this been going on?"

"Little while," Bucky mumbles, "Few weeks."

She leans forward, holding tight to Red Panda. " _And?_ " 

Bucky's red cheeks betray him. Tasha puts Red Panda to her face and lets out a muffled squeal.

"Don't really wanna talk about the grown-up games when I'm little."

"So there  _have_ been—"

"Yeah. It's just, it's nice, I guess. Don't tell anyone yet, though, okay?"

"Of course not. But if you ever want advice on anything, you can come talk to me. If you want."

Bucky might. But then, he might not. Most of what he wants to know has to do with how he can find more games his last daddy never made him play, and he's not sure he wants to ask Tasha  _that._  

"I get really worried, though," he confesses a minute later, rubbing Bucky Bear's ear. "Daddy's so good, and I'm..."

"You're good," Tasha protests, "I've  _told_ you before, Bucky."

"There's a  _lot_ of bad," Bucky mumbles, hiding his face in Bucky Bear, "Can't help it. Still get scared Daddy was better off without me."

"You're kidding," Tasha says, "Has anyone told you what he was like when he first got unfrozen? So reckless. Like he didn't care how bad he got hurt."

"That sounds like him anyway," Bucky whispers. He's nervous; he almost starts chewing on Bucky Bear's ears, but Bucky Bear really wouldn't like that. He bites on his finger instead.

"He's so much better now, though. He actually takes two seconds to think about what he's doing. He'll probably still do the stupid thing anyway, but really, he's better. And happier. I used to get so worried about him. He was always sad, and trying to pretend he wasn't."

Bucky doesn't like to think of Daddy being so sad. Maybe tomorrow morning he and Bucky Bear can each give him a big hug.

"And then when he found out you were alive, he was trying to do everything he could to come help you. And when you came to live with us, he was so different. Less of an idiot, really. This past year, I think he's actually been happy. You're not _bad_ for him, Bucky, trust me. He _needs_ you."

Bucky feels so warm and fuzzy. He squeezes Bucky Bear really tight. "He needs me?" Daddy's said it before, but it's different to hear it like this. Bucky didn't know all that stuff about Daddy being sad. He didn't know Daddy was only happy when Bucky came back.

"Oh, yeah. So much."

Bucky has to bury his face in his pillow, and when he picks his head up again, his cookies are gone.

*

"It's come to my attention," Bucky announces, stretching out on Steve's bed, "That you once jumped out of an airplane without a damn parachute."

"It's come to  _my_ attention," Steve says, "that half the cookies are missing."

"Bucky Bear was hungry," Bucky says, "What's  _your_ excuse?"

"Forgot it at home." Steve flops down on the mattress. "I hope Bucky Bear didn't make himself sick twice in one day."

"How high, Steve?" Bucky rolls over onto his side, facing Steve. "Bet you made Rumlow jealous."

"Well,  _he_ made  _me_ jump out of an elevator, so..."

"You jumped out of an  _elevator?_ " Steve's gone quiet, with a sort of look Bucky thinks is achingly familiar. This is definitely Steve's preparing-for-a-lecture look. " _Why_ are you allowed outside? You jump on grenades. You jump out of airplanes. You jump out of elevators—"

"That one wasn't my fault!" Steve protests.

"Steve," Bucky sighs, and, spurred by some spontaneous instinct, leans over to kiss his nose, "You're gonna be the death of me,"

The look of surprise on Steve's face makes him laugh, though, and in a minute Steve is smiling, and damn it, Bucky never could stay mad at this dumbass. 

And if the words are maybe a little too familiar, if Steve's smiling a big goofy smile, eyes shining, well, maybe Bucky's feeling a little sappy himself. And maybe he can skip the lecture, just for tonight.

Instead, he pulls Steve over to give him another kiss.

"Okay?" Steve murmurs, hands running up Bucky's arms, over his chest. 

"Yeah. Very okay," Bucky says, and for now, for the moment, he really is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't usually write ships, and I'm not a serious shipper, but the dynamic that would play out was too interesting not to explore. 
> 
> Also, it's totally off-canon. But I hope you enjoyed anyway. 
> 
> I got halfway through writing this and realized I'd mostly forgotten to include mentions of Bucky Bear. (For shame, Sara. For shame.) I then became very amused at the thought of this little AU from his perspective. Poor Bucky Bear.
> 
> And Steve still couldn't play baseball. It would simply be unethical. Can you imagine his ass in baseball pants? The poor umpire could never focus on the game.


	9. Love You Forever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _This probably should have waited till tomorrow._
> 
> In terms of parenthood, Steve's crossing uncharted territory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this directly follows [The Monster Inside of Me](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4777982), with some references to [But Keep the Old](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4948756).

This probably should have waited till tomorrow.

Bucky's had a pretty rough day. A couple rough days, actually, Steve thinks, his insides constricting with guilt. Hindsight's a bitch, always letting him know exactly what he should have done, but too fucking late to do it. If only he'd asked about the bear. If only he'd paid more attention to the way Bucky  _talked_ about the bear.

The Soldier did seem to be appeased by the arcade game, but by the time they got to the playroom, he was five again, uncertain and scared. He'd gone still and pale when he saw the vicious drawing on the wall, the drawing he'd put there only the day before. Steve could just see it, the horror and self-loathing forming on his face. He'd been shaking so badly, scrubbing with the sponge, that Steve had made him stop halfway through just to breathe.

"I wanna get it  _off_ ," he'd insisted tearfully as Steve wrapped an arm around him and guided him away from the wall.

"We will," Steve promised, "We're just gonna get you calmed down first." And Bucky had allowed himself to be led over to the couch, but Steve had had to hold his hands to keep him from hurting himself in his guilt and shame. 

The rest of the cleaning went markedly better, Steve and Bucky telling stories back and forth to cheer Bucky up. Steve got the idea from a parenting forum; one father encouraged his kids to make up their own stories to foster creativity and independence. Bucky's always liked to hear stories, so Steve had suggested that for him. If stories about bear missions weren't exactly what he had in mind, he knew better than to say so by now. Honestly, he probably should have expected it.

He _did_ suggest that the stories involve more fun and less blood, and so the mission ended with the Commander Bear making pancakes.

But then he'd had to apologize to Natasha and Pepper.

Steve hadn't been present for that. He'd offered to go with Bucky to help him feel braver, but Bucky had said Tasha might just find that cowardly. He had to do it on his own. So Steve hadn't known what happened to make Bucky come out of the dining room looking so wrecked, and he knew better than to ask Natasha. 

And his apology to Pepper had him in tears, barely able to get out a coherent sentence. 

After that had come therapy. Fortunately, Miriam and Cornelius had managed to get to the Tower on their off day. They'd wanted to know exactly what happened and Bucky had detailed each transgression, slumping lower and lower on the couch, pushing through despite multiple offers to let him take breaks. He seemed determined to punish himself in every way possible.

He'd been better by the time the session ended. Once they'd worked through everything Bucky had done and why, Miriam had reminded him about mistakes and self-forgiveness.

"But what if it's not a mistake?" Bucky had whispered, staring at the carpet. "What if you meant to do it? All of it? And you knew people would get hurt from it, but you did it anyway?" 

"Have you said you're sorry?" Miriam asked gently, and he nodded. "And it seems to me that you are? That you regret hurting others' feelings?" Another nod.

"Then it's the same as with a mistake, James. You try to learn from it, and to forgive yourself. Doing or saying hurtful things—that's something everyone has done in their life. And we can all learn how to do better."

Momentarily, that had helped. But then had come a gutting moment for both of them, when the doctors had asked to speak to the Soldier.

They'd given him a whole bunch of cursory questions, feeling out the best way to talk to him, then asked him for his take on yesterday's tantrum. He'd behaved uncannily like he did as a child, ducking his head and peppering his answers with apologies.

"So you thought that by behaving in ways you knew you weren't supposed to, you'd get what you wanted?" Miriam, as always, managed to make the question sound neutral rather than accusatory. Steve had wished he knew how she did it. "I'm not following your thought pattern there. Could you clarify?"

"Pierce would—I'm sorry," he added, glancing at Steve.

"What are you sorry for?" Miriam wanted to know.

"It upsets him when I reference my former master. I try not to."

Heartbreak number one. "It's okay, Buck. You can use the words you need. I—I didn't realize you didn't think you could talk about him."

"He would punish me, and I would—apologize. In one way or another. And then it would be over. I thought I could induce punishment more quickly and get the bear back."

"In your time at the Tower, has anyone punished you in any of those ways?" Cornelius asked. Red-faced, Bucky shook his head.

"I've told you, Buck. I'll never do that to you. I'll never do anything to hurt you." 

And Bucky had looked into his lap, flesh hand wrapped tightly around the metal one. He hadn't wanted to say whatever was on his mind, but when prompted, he whispered, "You said you wouldn't take my bear, too. But when I'd done something bad enough, you did. I thought—"

Heartbreak number two. Steve had wanted to pull Bucky close and promise him,  _promise_ him, there would be no belts and no threats and no rapes. But he couldn't. He couldn't. Because he'd destroyed his own credibility with the damn bear. All the promises he'd made this past year, promises of safety, of unconditional love—had he invalidated all of those? 

Steve had just wanted to hold him. Hold him and apologize.  _I don't want to take your bear, Buck. I know how much he means to you._ But he hadn't.

And so here they were, Bucky tense as though he expected Steve to strike him for questioning his word, Steve struggling with how to respond. "I meant that I'd never take your bear away for good. When I said I'd give him back, I meant it. I didn't understand, Buck. I thought you were lying when you said Bucky Bear hit Tasha. But to you," he realized, "it wasn't a lie, was it?"

And Bucky shook his head, tears glistening on the ends of his lashes, leaving Steve feeling awful and wondering how he could possibly fix this. 

Then Bucky had talked about trying to repair the damage he had done, and Miriam had said, "Is this the first time you—as the Soldier, that is—have had to deal with long-term consequences of your actions?"

Bucky froze, looking like he was trying to work out what she said.

"When you were with HYDRA, when your memory was taken from you, you were unable to make connections between one event and the next, am I correct?"

Bucky nodded.

"But now you can. So I think it would be a good idea to think about...hmm. About how things are the way they are, because of things that happened weeks or months ago. Does that make sense?"

A pause, then a nod.

"Another good strategy would be—say you were considering doing something you knew you shouldn't. You could ask yourself why you shouldn't do it. You could think about the effects your actions might have in a day, or a week, or a month. Because without having your memories taken away, you're going to have to—"

Bucky had gone rigid on the couch, and Miriam stopped. And that had been heartbreak number three.

Because Steve saw the goddamned chair. Saw the restraints, heard Bucky describe the way the wipes had made him scream. When they turned that thing on in the courtroom, he'd momentarily thought Bucky was going to go into a meltdown on the spot. 

And the Soldier's reaction now? That wasn't because he was afraid to remember the chair. No, that was because he was afraid to try and live  _without_ it.

Steve had lost his self-control, then, hugging Bucky and promising him they'd work it out together and everything would be okay. But Bucky still couldn't stop shaking.

So that had been therapy.

After that, Steve had hesitated. Bucky had yet to give him a full apology. Not because he wasn't sorry—Steve could tell just how awful he'd been feeling—but with everything going on, it must have slipped his mind.

Most of the parenting advice he's seen agrees that it's important to make sure kids apologize for their behavior. Even if they know what they did was wrong, it's important that they own up to it, so that they learn to fully take responsibility for their actions. 

He'd considered letting it wait until tomorrow, but then, he reasoned, Bucky might be in a better mood then. No need to keep dragging up the past—better to get this all over with and let him move on.

Or so Steve had thought, until he gently prompted Bucky, "I think you may have one more apology to make."

"I'm sorry, Daddy. I shouldn't have drawn bad things on the wall and yelled at you and made a mess and put Captain Ameribear in the freezer. And I'm really sorry I said all that stuff about my last Daddy it wasn't true I promise, Daddy, I didn't mean it you're better than him—"

"Honey—" Okay, this definitely could have waited until tomorrow. Bucky's eyes are gleaming, his breathing shaky.

"—I know it made you sad that's all I'm good for, hurting people—"

"Bucky, no—"

"That's all I ever was good for, he lied, didn't he, about all the good I was doing and now I know it was bad, sir, I know that's all I ever was and I don't know how to be good ruining everything is all I ever did and you deserve better than something like me all I want is to be good but I don't know  _how—_ "

His hands are shaking. Steve tries to hug him but he remains rigid, trembling in Steve's arms and choking out his apologies.

"—Daddy, I'm not good and I don't know how you can still love me—"

"—I'll always love you, Buck." Steve can feel the stinging in his eyes.

"—and I don't want you to get eaten by bears either that was a horrible drawing and I—" 

And that's when he breaks into sobbing so heavily Steve can barely make sense of what he's saying. There's something about Bucky Bear and a whole lot of apologies and Steve's trying to rub his back and comfort him but it's like Bucky can't hear a word he's saying. Steve begins to panic—what if Bucky can't get calmed down? What if he makes himself sick? What if he really does think he can't be loved anymore?

That last one seems all too likely.

"I love you, Buck. Shh, it's all right. It's all right now," he just keeps repeating it, rocking Bucky and holding him tight and waiting out the panic and self-hatred and misery pouring out. "Shhh. Okay, it's okay. Of course I still love you. I'll always love you. Forever, Buck. Till the end of the line, right? I'll love you forever." It's the one thing he knows for sure, and so he says it again and again until Bucky manages to breathe. 

"You're too good to me, sir," he whispers against Steve's shoulder, and there's heartbreak number four.

"Shh, no. Come on. I'm with you, Bucky, even when things aren't going so good. We apologize, and forgive, and move on." He read that on the same site about getting kids to say sorry. "So this is over now, right? You've apologized. I forgive you. And now I have to ask you to forgive me."

That gets Bucky quiet, at least for a minute. So Steve goes on.

"I made you feel like a part of you wasn't wanted. And you didn't feel safe enough to let me know that part of you was still here. I'm so sorry, Bucky. There are good things about every side of you, and I'll love you no matter which side you are right now. Always. I'll love you forever," he repeats. "Okay? Are we good? All apologies accepted?"

And finally, Bucky takes a deep, shuddering breath and nods. Steve keeps squeezing him tight, though, tighter and tighter for every second Bucky might be doubting that Steve could really love him.

"Want to take a nap?" he finally offers, because that seems the quickest way to get this all behind them. "You'd probably feel a lot better. I could come lie down with you, or read stories if you wanted."

Bucky nods. They were both up last night, and he's probably worn himself out crying today. 

Back in Bucky's room, Steve scans the bookshelf while Bucky gets dressed for bed. And when he comes out of the bathroom, Steve has to smile. He's wearing his Captain America pajamas.

He's also turning Bucky Bear over and over in his hands, murmuring quietly to him. To Steve he says, "Hold on just a minute."

He rummages under the bed, digging out a box. Inside are the little teddy bear pull-ups Tony made to match Bucky's.

He shields Bucky Bear from view as he puts the pull-up on him, but it still sticks out from underneath his coat. Steve is very careful not to smile; Bucky Bear would not enjoy feeling like he's being laughed at.

"All ready for bed, both of you?" he asks instead. Bucky bites his lip.

"Bucky Bear doesn't feel good," he whispers.

"Oh? Why is that, Bucky Bear?"

Neither boy nor bear answers, although Bucky tugs at Bucky Bear's coat.

"Would a blanket help? Maybe a hug?" Bucky nods, and so they wrap the bear in a blanket burrito and Steve squeezes him tight. "Don't feel bad, Bucky Bear. You can sleep between Bucky and me if that would help. Captain Ameribear, too."

Bucky says Bucky Bear would like that, and so there ends up being a pile of teddy bears in the bed between him and Steve.

But Steve doesn't let that stop him from hugging Bucky extra tight as they drift off to sleep.


	10. My Demons Are Begging Me to Open Up My Mouth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Daddy says there's always hope that things may someday be okay again._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [This interlude](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3705493/chapters/9571044) and [this one](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3705493/chapters/9615594) establish an AU in which Pierce survived insight. A while back, someone asked what would happen if he escaped and managed to take Snowflake with him.
> 
> I should really warn you right now. Dove very dead, much 'do not eat'.

This is so bad. So, so bad.

Bucky doesn't know what to do. His family is going to  _hate_ him.  _Everyone's_  going to hate him. But he didn't  _mean_  to let his last daddy out of the cell where SHIELD was keeping him. It just _happened_.

It was already a kind of sad visit because Daddy kept talking about how much he missed his little Snowflake. And Bucky felt bad, and also mad because he missed Daddy,  _too._ It wasn't  _fair._ They almost never let Bucky  _see_ him. SHIELD says no, his new Daddy says no, even his doctors don't want him to come here. And that's all Bucky had been thinking when his Daddy said it wouldn't really be that hard for them to be together. All Bucky would have to do is help him escape and bring him to a safe house. Then Daddy would take care of the rest. 

It all sounded so easy. Bucky Bear hadn't even realized Daddy was using his old Latin commands until halfway to the safehouse. Then the bear had warned Bucky and Bucky had started to shake, and he realized it was too late. Too late to stop.

At Daddy's suggestion, Bucky turned his phone off, but he could probably switch it back on without Daddy noticing. His family would be able to trace it. They'd come find him, and even if they were mad at him they'd lock Daddy back up again and deep down Bucky knows that would be the right thing to do.

But Daddy's sitting on the bed, smiling such a familiar smile. Bucky's heart aches. Craves. Needs, in spite of everything. And he doesn't yell, like he's yelled in therapy when he let his guard down. He doesn't say  _no_ or  _bad_ or  _why, Daddy, why?_

Instead he finds himself asking, in a tiny voice, if he can have a hug. He's all shaken up and sad and scared and Daddy inclines his head, inviting.

"Of course you can, darling. You've been so brave and clever for Daddy. Come here."

His fingers toy with his phone, but he's looking at Daddy's face and he can't make himself switch it on. He drops his hand and goes to Daddy with a heavy sigh, hugging on so tight to stop the pounding in his heart.

"We'll have to figure out where we're going pretty soon," Daddy whispers, stroking his back, "We can't stay here."

"Uh-huh," Bucky whispers. He knows. SHIELD's pretty good at finding people they're looking for.

His tummy is all in knots. Does he want to be found? SHIELD's scary and they might hurt him or lock him in a prison, but there was that nice lady named Skye who liked his bears. Bucky thinks she'd help him, or Tasha would if he'd just let her know where he is. Or Daddy.

Bucky  _really_  wants to call for Daddy. He does. But the thought of having his two Daddies fighting each other is making him feel sick and this Daddy's the one who's here watching him. His face looks so  _knowing_. Miriam and Cornelius would call that paranoia, but Bucky's sure Daddy really can tell what he's thinking, and good little boys aren't defiant and they don't lie to their daddies and Bucky still doesn't reach for his phone.

"How've you been?" he mumbles, because that's what's polite and he's unsure what to say.

Daddy laughs a little. "I've just been living in that little cell up until my good boy got me out." He gives Bucky a squeeze. "But that's pretty boring, isn't it? Tell me about  _you,_ sweetheart. I bet you've been going on all kinds of adventures and missions."

Bucky flushes a little. He  _has_ gone on adventures, but not the kind Daddy's talking about. "My bears go on more missions than me," he mumbles. But then he's sad. He doesn't want to think about the Bearvengers and how they'll probably never play games with Bucky Bear again. What if Captain Ameribear decides that Bucky Bear is a traitor? What if he _hates_ him now?

Bucky Bear's stuffing feels all twisted up inside. Bucky gives him a squeeze with the arm that's not hugging Daddy, but the bear is still upset and that makes Bucky upset. And if Bucky's upset, he might make Daddy mad.

Daddy senses his tension and firmly murmurs, _"Amā."_

A warm, shivery sensation spreads out from Bucky's head and down his spine, wholly relaxing him. The  _"Amō"_ that slips from his and Bucky Bear's mouths is immediate and provides an instant and all-encompassing relief. His worries all melt away, just like the tension that dissipates as Daddy's hand strokes up his back. Pets his hair. He is soft and warm. He loves. He is loved.

His fingers brush against the fur of the bear. They don't feel it very well, because the hand holding the bear is the metal one, the one that is cold and rigid and everything little boys are not, but it's comforting nonetheless. His bear is soft under his fingers and Daddy's hand is in his hair. Everything is going to be okay. He turns his head into the soft kiss his Daddy gives him, his own mouth meeting the lips that search his cheeks.

And then his tummy squeezes as a hand works its way under the waistband of his pants, stroking at his thighs before coming to rest between them. His breath catches and then, before he knows it, the hand withdraws.

He freezes, unsure if he has done something wrong, but Daddy's still smiling.

"Not yet, I'm afraid. We'll need to move to a safer place soon enough. Daddy's got some things he needs to take care of, little one. And then we can play."

*

There is much work to be done.

At first Daddy tries to get rid of the bear. But something went wrong, he says, when the bad people had him. He's too erratic now. When Daddy tries to take his bear away he is bad and he cannot control it. He is beaten and scolded and made to sit in a room all alone for hours at a time, but in the end the bear stays.

Daddy is sad, looking at the bear, saying he can't stand to see what those bad people have done to his Snowflake. The bear is sad, too, because Daddy doesn't love him and never will. He hugs the bear as much as he can when Daddy isn't looking. He is bad and the bear is bad but Daddy says there's always hope that things may someday be okay again.

The Soldier malfunctions. The memory wipes don't work as smoothly as they did before. Fragments swirl in his head like glass. He feels all cut up inside. A mission calls for him to pass by a farm and he sees a lamb and he cries. His handlers don't understand what's become of him. They are forced to take the lamb with them. He is afraid Daddy will be angry with this latest failure, but Daddy smiles and says he understands. Of course they can protect the little lamb. Of course they'll never let anything bad happen to it. Daddy understands that he's malfunctioning; sometimes he just can't help being bad now, but it's okay. Daddy can help make him better.

When he's bad on purpose, Daddy says they might have to get rid of the bear. He never told Daddy the bear is the one who puts bad ideas in his head, but Daddy knows everything anyway and there's no point in trying to lie to him. What he doesn't understand is why Daddy can't see that the bear is more important than the boy will ever be.

The bear is angry and terrified and insistent that he is a good bear, but he sometimes does give the boy bad advice. Then the boy is bad and Daddy's not happy. The boy takes the punishment rather than incriminate the bear. He has to protect the bear.

He keeps messing up, thinking he's not supposed to hurt people when he is. He is made to kill a lamb as practice. 

Daddy keeps trying to fix him. He never remembers the nightmares, but he wakes Daddy with his screaming. He wets the bed, and no matter how many times corrective punishment is administered, the accidents do not stop. He jeopardizes an overnight mission when he wakes screaming and drenched and hyperventilating. The restraints in the van were built to contain his panic, but by the time his handlers deliver him back to Daddy he has broken several ribs against the heavy metal band.

The worst part is that his master doesn't even punish him this time. He just looks at the Soldier so sadly and the Soldier withers in shame.

He is confused. He keeps asking his Commander for pancakes. He doesn't know what pancakes are, only that his Commander should be giving them to him.

Shouldn't he?

Daddy says they're trying to wean him off the bear. He says that one of these days they will leave the bear behind. But then one day he changes his mind. He says that he has a special mission coming up. It's going to be really hard, and Daddy's not sure if the Soldier's ready for it. But he's HYDRA's most highly trained operative, and he's their best hope.

And, Daddy says, if he does it correctly, he never has to get rid of his bear.

Daddy wants proof that the job has been done, and so the Soldier brings back a souvenir from this mission. For the first time, Daddy praises the bear. Daddy says he's a good bear, and accords him a place of honor atop the metal shield the Soldier has taken as a trophy. 

If the bear could cry from relief, he would. But the bear never cries because crying his bad and he's a _good_ bear. He's _good_. He's _good_.

*

It turns out that a highly concentrated gas, administered via aerosol, can efficiently kill a beast that weighs several tons. The Soldier doesn't know why this fact is extraordinary, or why it lodges in his brain even when the chair wipes all else away. He knows two things, though. The first is that this had been a major concern of HYDRA's, and that they'd been very relieved to find out the aerosol solution had worked. The second, more puzzling, thing is that whenever the Soldier remembers this fact, he inexplicably craves hot tea.

Daddy watches, asking if it makes him think of anything in particular. He doesn't know; he doesn't even know why he wants it. He doesn't really like it all that much, and yet it soothes something inside him that even Daddy cannot reach.

Daddy says he has to be careful about giving his boy tea. He can only have it tonight if he promises not to wet the bed. He wets the bed anyway, and is made to lie curled in the bathtub for the rest of the night. Sniffling in his wet, smelly pants with his newest set of bruises, he thinks he has done something very wrong. Something very wrong _other_ than having an accident. 

The bear watches him from the sink. He is not allowed to hold the bear, not tonight. He is not allowed to speak to the bear, but the bear talks to him anyway.

 _You're okay, Bucky,_  he says to the bad little boy crying alone in the bathtub.

The bear is a very bad bear. The boy is a very bad boy. And sometimes he thinks neither of them can ever be fixed.

*

The woman possesses incredible skill. The Soldier has lapsed and she is nearly unstoppable and for a while he thinks he may be in real danger.

But something in the way she fights spurs him on, heart racing in a way it hasn't in a while. This target knows how to _play_.

And that makes the winning all the more sweet.

He would thank this target if she was still alive to hear it. She's taught him how to be an asset again, like he was before.

She tried yelling words at him, to trick him, but Daddy prepared him for that by putting wax in his ears. Still, killing this one was as difficult as some of the others. He couldn't breathe, for reasons that he didn't quite understand. He trembled and faltered and very nearly cried.

A few good rounds of sparring, and he's overcome all of that. Really, he does wish that he could thank her.

She managed to land some decent hits on him, and Daddy stays with him while he heals, stroking his hair and kissing his cheeks and patting the bear. And when he is all better, he and Daddy play with renewed vigor. Daddy groans and gasps and says the boy is good so good yes so good.

It's rare, these days, for him to sound like he means it.

The boy relishes his triumph and nestles up to Daddy, hiding his stinging tears of relief behind the bear. Maybe Daddy's right—of course Daddy's right—and everything can someday be okay again.

*

But perhaps he is not as fixed as he thinks he is.

The Soldier does not understand why the mission is so difficult. He is told it is a mercy kill. In fact, they don't even need the Soldier to carry it out. He just happened to be in the area after he set off poisonous gas in an apartment complex to draw out the man who oversees the building, and his handlers figured they'd knock off two birds with one stone.

And they're right. It's an easy kill. The man is injured and moderately impaired. His skin looks red and angry and painful, and he makes no attempt to prevent the Soldier from cutting off his air. His eyes, dead and glassy, don't look much different than they did before the Soldier ended his life.

It is the Soldier who falters, until the man jerks in a breath and slurs at him to just go ahead and fucking do it.

So why does it take him so long?

Disposal takes longer than expected. He is supposed to spirit the body away so that it can vanish without a trace. Instead he brings it to a graveyard and deposits it gingerly on the ground, taking care not to pain the stiff, scarred skin. He leaves the man by a plain granite tombstone. He doesn't bother to read it. Somehow he knows this is where the man belongs.

He is punished most severely and yet he still thinks, for the first time in months, that he has done well. Something must be very wrong with him, still.

They burn him, again and again, and the Soldier only smiles behind his hair. 

He stops smiling when he finally, finally understands.

*

He understands.

That's when he gives himself up.

His hands are red. Really red, not red like when he thought his blood had ceased to circulate. Red and wet with his master's blood.

It wasn't as hard as he thought it would be. He did it quickly, before he could give himself time to think about it. Before a command could fall from the Secretary's lips, before he could look into that kind, personable face and whisper "Daddy". There was no gloating, no savoring the moment or watching the light leave his eyes. Given the life his master led, his death was really quite anticlimactic. It was over in a second, his throat crushed under shiny metal fingers.

It broke the Soldier, of course, broke him beyond all repair. But then, he was already broken beyond all repair, was he not? This is the master who lies to him. This is the master who made his mind into glass and then shattered it. Twisted, burned, stretched, damaged. Somewhere, distantly, he feels bad. Very bad. But mostly he is just numb, and tries his best to stay that way.

When the Soldier finally finds the bear, it speaks to him in the voice of a child.  _Don't feel bad, Bucky,_ it says, and this seems wrong somehow, but the Soldier does not question why. He merely slips the cell phone from his master's back pocket and composes a mass text, to be sent to every number he can remember. There must be someone from his former life that is still alive. Anyone. _  
_

He's not sure, actually. His much-abused head can no longer remember from one punishment to the next. It could be that he has failed to kill every one of them. He thinks his master used to tell him he never failed, a long time ago, but now he's not quite sure.

He gets to work with the phone. He can clearly remember the numbers, but not the names and faces to which they belong. He remembers that the bear is very important, but he does not know why. The chair is funny in the things it selects and the things it leaves behind.

The Soldier quietly eliminates the sentries who'd been guarding them, to make it that much easier for whoever will come to take him out. There weren't many guards. Only a trusted few were put on duty during his and Daddy's 'special time'.

Once they're dead, he lays down his weapons, save for one. He switches out his tac gear for the dinosaur pajamas so they will know he is concealing nothing. He stands in the middle of the room with his hands up.

It's a team of SHIELD agents that comes to get him, and of course they're armed. Of course they think it's a trap. Because they're agents, and they're intelligent, and they have experience in this kind of thing.

It's a little amusing, the Soldier reflects—and maybe it's wrong that he can still feel amusement after everything that's happened today—it's a little amusing that for all their efforts to be prepared, they seem very thrown by the sight of him in fuzzy pajamas with a teddy bear clutched in the hand that's not covered with blood. It's important to protect the bear, he remembers that much. There may come a time when he needs a friend.

And anyway, it no longer matters whether he leaves his flesh hand free to be held. The Soldier's fairly certain there's no one left in this world who will want to hold his hand.

He knows the team that encircles him, weapons raised. He doesn't know _how_ he knows them. He doesn't know how he knows most people. But he's certain he's met them before. He decides to hold out judgment on whether or not he can trust them.

Only that's when the numbness starts to fade. It's the pretty woman's fault, the one with the big eyes and shiny dark hair. He doesn't know her name, but he thinks she was kind to him once. She was kind when he was feeling bad, like this, and she showed him respect when he felt unworthy. Yes, that was it.

He chokes on words that were meant to be calm. The glass in his head is splintering again and again.

He asks if any of the Avengers have been left alive. The balding man says they cannot tell him, and the Soldier understands.

He understands logically, but not emotionally. He is in tears he is crying he knows now that he has killed them all. Only maybe he has not, and they can't tell him because they fear he will attempt to hunt them down. Or maybe he really has killed them. Or, or he hasn't. But he thinks he has. He knows he has. He should have died in the river, he says, not knowing what it means, he should have died in the fall. He should be dead. He should be dead. He should be dead.

He hears them murmuring over the sounds of his own meltdown. Someone mentions calling in Potts for help. He doesn't know who Potts is or what they will help the SHIELD team to achieve.

"What do you want from me?" he manages to ask. The bear prompts him. The bear is good and does not cry and always makes sure to ask what people want from him.

"Believe it or not," the balding man says, "We think you may be able to help us."

The Soldier knows what it means when someone looks at him with such a wide-eyed veneer of compassion and promises that he can be helpful, yes, so good.

And, beneath that, the Soldier knows, is the most shameful sort of cowardice. He cannot live with himself and what he has done. These people, untrustworthy as he may find them, are on the side of good, and he is not. He is not strong enough to make the attempt to atone, and he cannot be sure that these people would guide him in the right direction to do so. He will not be held captive and aimed and fired, twisted and lied to and used. Never again. He's done. It's time for him to lay his weapons down.

Then the glass scatters again and he loses all thoughts but one. He knows what he must do.

His last weapon is less dramatic than the bullet to the head that HYDRA had prepared him for, but he has been assured that it will be just as efficient. It was given to him on missions in case he was disarmed, and his master never had the chance to take it away from him.

He crunches down on the pill concealed in his cheek, bitterness disintegrating on his tongue. It's easier to swallow than food, and doesn't make him feel sick.

"Believe me," he says hoarsely, "I'll only bring trouble. You don't want my kind of help. I need to be put down."

His tongue finds traces of the drug on his teeth. He gives the bear a squeeze, then tosses it to the wide-eyed woman. They all flinch as she catches the bear with both hands. Already he wants to snatch it back; funny how it's harder to let go of that old bear than to crush his master's throat. But somehow he knows this woman should have his bear. He trusts her to take good care of him.

"He needs to eat honey every day. He has sensitive ears. He's a special and important bear. Remember that," he says. Her eyes have gone wide and shiny and one of the other women is giving orders in an urgent sort of tone, but it's too late. He feels his head beginning to spin. His breathing is very loud in his ears. He's not sure if he can feel his body or not, and then their hands are all over him, easing him to the floor. And that's when he sees the slender, sad-eyed woman in the doorway and his world comes to a standstill. He finds himself reaching for her with a weak hand that's not entirely in his control anymore.

And she's down on the floor with him, his head in her lap, her fingers stroking through his hair, and it's nice. Better than he deserves. It's not a bad way to die.

"What did I do?" he whispers to her, and then, "I'm so sorry, please, what did I do?"

But she won't tell him how many lives he has destroyed. Only that she loves him and she doesn't blame him and please try to hang in there, James, please?

There are needles and tubes being put into him that are trying to  _make_ him  _hang in there_ , and they do a pretty good job of prolonging his life. SHIELD knows what they're doing.

But so does HYDRA. The pill was made to handle this. It was made for him, to ensure that even his super-soldier body will not survive captivity. His system rejects the life support. He's steadily fading out.

"You could do it," he tells her, "You could make sure they save the world." Somehow he knows she'd be up for the job. Not everyone can handle it. Look at what happened to SHIELD.

"James, sweetheart, stay with me, now." They could go home, she promises, and she'll take care of him and keep him safe. But he knows better; that sort of life is not meant for a bad kid like him.

"I'm so sorry, Mommy. Please don't hate me."

"I don't hate you. Mommy loves you so much. Now come on, stay with me."

But that's not up to him anymore. "Tell me a story?" 

And so she clears her throat and does. He hangs on every word, even if something about the story is a bit off. Wrong. He thinks it should be someone else's voice reading it. But hers is nice, too. She strokes his hair and holds him and her eyes are wet but the tears don't fall. 

"Don't let them take my body," he says suddenly, "They'll try and wake me up again and you know how _that_ could go. I never wanna be an asset again, okay? And make sure SHIELD doesn't turn bad again. And. And if Daddy's still alive tell him I love him and I'm sorry."

If Daddy's still alive, he might actually try to survive this. But Mommy is silent, her eyes so sad, and he knows. He knows.

Daddy would never leave him. Daddy would never let him go again. Daddy would never stop looking for him. Until the Winter Soldier _made_ him stop.

But he's dying, and just for this moment, he can pretend. "Tell him I love him, and I'm sorry."

She brushes his hair off his forehead with slow, shaking fingers. "I'll tell him, sweetie. I promise."

Her eyes are so hard and fierce when she squeezes his hand, and he can almost believe her.

*

_Some mourners include James Barnes in their prayers during the vigils for the fallen. Others omit him, often pointedly. They gave him a chance, they say. He should have been locked up. He should have been put down. And now look what he's done. Now look._

_It doesn't help that photos of his body have already gone viral, and the funeral isn't even over. Pepper could have had a closed-casket service, but there were a few people left who wanted to say their goodbyes and she'd been trying to give them that option. She's already sure she'll regret it; media nationwide is now hotly debating her choice to have him buried in the Captain America pajamas. But she couldn't leave him in the clothes that sick bastard had made him wear, and he'd once said the Captain America pajamas made him feel safe._

_She hopes he truly is safe, now. She hopes he's finally reached a resting place where no one can disturb him again._

_After the speeches have been made, Pepper rises and shakes off the mourners offering their condolences. She gravitates toward the trembling but fierce-eyed Hill, another mourner determinedly not shedding a single tear._

_At Hill's side stands the agent Skye, who has an arm around a young woman with one hand pressed to her mouth. Clutched in the woman's other hand is a fuzzy plush bumblebee, and Pepper has to blink back an unexpected surge of tears. She's sobbed her heart out when she was alone, cried and kicked furniture and prayed and whispered to Bucky that it's okay, she understands, he can go ahead and be free and please never forget that Mommy loves him. She has done all of these things privately, but she has resolved not to cry here._

_Pepper is trailed by a puffy-eyed Sam. He came to her this morning and told her she doesn't have to do this. Not just yet. It's completely okay if she needs to give herself some time. She met his eyes and said he was right. She is going to wait. She's going to wait until Rhodey has healed well enough to be mobile on his own, and then she's going to start._

_Rhodey is expected to make a full recovery. He would have been paralyzed or killed had Tony not disobeyed his orders, sacrificing his own life to protect his friend._

_Pepper's so immensely grateful to have Sam on her side. He has a point about taking it easy, but she currently has a complete disregard for things like logic. She's going to do this, and, thank God, Sam's going to be there. Because that's what Sam Wilson does._

_Hill catches sight of her and pauses, expectant. "I think you and I need to talk," Pepper says._

_Hill nods. "Yes, I believe so. Coulson doesn't want to admit it, but we really do need your help."_

_Pepper has her reservations about SHIELD and about what kind of help they want from her, but she's wise enough to keep that to herself. She will not bend to SHIELD; SHIELD will, eventually, bend to her. "And I really want to help. We're going to end HYDRA once and for all."_

_Hill meets her eyes with a scorching gaze. "Amen to that. Let's burn this son of a bitch to the ground."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry, I'm terrible, but if it makes you feel any better, I'm writing an alternate version of this, and it will be in the next chapter. It's happier than this one, I promise, although that may not set the "happy bar" that high. If you want to further heal your heart, Lauralot also wrote [an interlude in which this little scene went a whole lot better](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3705493/chapters/11962517).
> 
> Oh, but if you want some kind of twisted amusement, imagine puzzled SHIELD agents trying to decrypt the Winter Soldier's perplexing final instructions to Skye regarding his bear. They're certain there must be a secret message somewhere in there. "He needs to eat honey every day, what the hell is _that_ supposed to mean?"
> 
> (And if it's of any comfort, even though it's not mentioned in this story, HYDRA did not manage find Anders and Murphy, and so I didn't kill them off. There's a certain level of evil you just don't mess with.)


	11. You Were One Inch from the Edge of This Bed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Alexander Pierce smiles to himself; he knew Barnes would come. The boy just can't help himself. Just can't stay away. Even after everything, Pierce still has him on a string. Knows just how to reel him in and jerk him around._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this chapter is a companion to the previous one. It's an 'alternative version' with a happier ending. I actually wrote this one first, but then it occurred to me that "you know, this might not play out in a best-possible-result kind of way" and then I tried to explore that and all the darkness happened.
> 
> (Yes, the first chunk of this is exactly the same as the first part of the last chapter. I was too lazy to make it different. But given what was in the last chapter, laziness is probably not what I should be apologizing for.)
> 
> I hope this version is far more satisfying than the last one was.

This is so bad. So, so bad.

Bucky doesn't know what to do. His family is going to  _hate_ him.  _Everyone's_  going to hate him. But he didn't  _mean_  to let his last daddy out of the cell where SHIELD was keeping him. It just _happened_.

It was already a kind of sad visit because Daddy kept talking about how much he missed his little Snowflake. And Bucky felt bad, and also mad because he missed Daddy,  _too._ It wasn't  _fair._ They almost never let Bucky  _see_ him. SHIELD says no, his new Daddy says no, even his doctors don't want him to come here. And that's all Bucky had been thinking when his Daddy said it wouldn't really be that hard for them to be together. All Bucky would have to do is help him escape and bring him to a safe house. Then Daddy would take care of the rest. 

It all sounded so easy. Bucky Bear hadn't even realized Daddy was using his old Latin commands until halfway to the safehouse. Then the bear had warned Bucky and Bucky had started to shake, and he realized it was too late. Too late to stop.

At Daddy's suggestion, Bucky turned his phone off, but he could probably switch it back on without Daddy noticing. His family would be able to trace it. They'd come find him, and even if they were mad at him they'd lock Daddy back up again and deep down Bucky knows that would be the right thing to do.

But Daddy's sitting on the bed, smiling such a familiar smile. Bucky's heart aches. Craves. Needs, in spite of everything. And he doesn't yell, like he's yelled in therapy when he let his guard down. He doesn't say  _no_ or  _bad_ or  _why, Daddy, why?_

Instead he finds himself asking, in a tiny voice, if he can have a hug. He's all shaken up and sad and scared and Daddy inclines his head, inviting.

"Of course you can, darling. You've been so brave and clever for Daddy. Come here."

His fingers toy with his phone, but he's looking at Daddy's face and he can't make himself switch it on. He drops his hand and goes to Daddy with a heavy sigh, hugging on so tight to stop the pounding in his heart.

"We'll have to figure out where we're going pretty soon," Daddy whispers, stroking his back, "We can't stay here."

"Uh-huh," Bucky whispers. He knows. SHIELD's pretty good at finding people they're looking for.

His tummy is all in knots. Does he want to be found? SHIELD's scary and they might hurt him or lock him in a prison, but there was that nice lady named Skye who liked his bears. Bucky thinks she'd help him, or Tasha would if he'd just let her know where he is. Or Daddy.

Bucky  _really_  wants to call for Daddy. He does. But the thought of having his two Daddies fighting each other is making him feel sick and this Daddy's the one who's here watching him. His face looks so  _knowing_. Miriam and Cornelius would call that paranoia, but Bucky's sure Daddy really can tell what he's thinking, and good little boys aren't defiant and they don't lie to their daddies and Bucky still doesn't reach for his phone.

"How've you been?" he mumbles, because that's what's polite and he's unsure what to say.

Daddy laughs a little. "I've just been living in that little cell up until my good boy got me out." He gives Bucky a squeeze. "But that's pretty boring, isn't it? Tell me about  _you,_ sweetheart. I bet you've been going on all kinds of adventures and missions."

Bucky flushes a little. He  _has_ gone on adventures, but not the kind Daddy's talking about. "My bears go on more missions than me," he mumbles. But then he's sad. He doesn't want to think about the Bearvengers and how they'll probably never play games with Bucky Bear again. What if Captain Ameribear decides that Bucky Bear is a traitor? What if he _hates_ him now?

Bucky Bear's stuffing feels all twisted up inside. Bucky gives him a squeeze with the arm that's not hugging Daddy, but the bear is still upset and that makes Bucky upset. And if Bucky's upset, he might make Daddy mad.

Daddy senses his tension and firmly murmurs, _"Amā."_

A warm, shivery sensation spreads out from Bucky's head and down his spine, wholly relaxing him. The  _"Amō"_ that slips from his and Bucky Bear's mouths is immediate and provides an instant and all-encompassing relief. His worries all melt away, just like the tension that dissipates as Daddy's hand strokes up his back. Pets his hair. He is soft and warm. He loves. He is loved.

His fingers brush against the fur of the bear. They don't feel it very well, because the hand holding the bear is the metal one, the one that is cold and rigid and everything little boys are not, but it's comforting nonetheless. His bear is soft under his fingers and Daddy's hand is in his hair. Everything is going to be okay. He turns his head into the soft kiss his Daddy gives him, his own mouth meeting the lips that search his cheeks.

And then his tummy squeezes as a hand works its way under the waistband of his pants, stroking at his thighs before coming to rest between them. His breath catches and

_The sound his mind makes when it breaks is like glass shards scraped over dry leaves. It’s almost pretty._

"Don't touch me," is what comes out of his mouth. He's thinking of his niece when he says it, but his voice isn't loud like Freddie's. It's shaky and faint and for a second he's desperately hoping Daddy didn't hear.

He doesn't even feel the slap at first. He's confused, blinking away the sting, by the time Daddy asks him in a voice soft and dangerous, "What do we know about good little boys?"

And he's  _crying_ now and Daddy won't like that one bit but Bucky can't make himself  _stop_. He feels like someone shook him up and his insides are floating around like the glitter in Tasha's _Frozen_  snow globe. It's been so long since he's been hit and he should have been expecting it but he can't shake off the shock. A strangled sob slips out and Bucky begins to tremble. He's been _so bad_ and he doesn't know what to do and nobody will ever love him again.

Daddy looks so disappointed and his face is turning hard and cold. Bucky knows what that means, and when Daddy reaches over he leans forward, ready to take any punishment Daddy gives him. That's what'll make everything okay again; he knows how this works.

But Daddy doesn't hit. He doesn't slap Bucky in the face or the back of the head, doesn't kick him or shove him to the floor.

Instead, he pulls Bucky Bear out of Bucky's hands.

He feels cold. Colder than he's felt in a long, long time. So cold he can hardly believe he's still breathing, icy air slipping out past his numb lips as he whispers, "Give him back."

"You're being bad,"  Pierce says, holding the bear up over his head, "We may just have to leave this little guy behind if you can't behave. You wouldn't want—"

Bucky Bear is the one who's out of control, and yet somehow it's the big metal arm that pins Pierce to the wall. The Soldier cannot think, has never been prepared for this sort of emergency. But his new master does not like his old one. His new master is not here, and the Soldier can only act as he thinks Steve would order him to. 

And he's already failed so badly. His new master has strong arms that held the Soldier up when he was too weak to stand. He has fierce eyes that have been burning for almost one hundred years. Even when his body was weak he was strong; he is everything the Soldier aspires to be. This master, the Soldier remembers, has lied to him. His new master is _good,_ so very  _good,_ and the Soldier has proven unworthy of him. All he can do now is try to atone. That's what his master taught him. He must own up to his wrongdoings and try to make them better. And he will. He wants to please Steve. He wants Steve to be happy with him. And even if that will never happen again, the Soldier at least has to _try_.

He ignores the Pierce's attempts to persuade him otherwise, although he evaluates today's events and decides that the old Latin commands simply present too great a risk to him. He effectively solves this problem by gagging Pierce with strips torn from the bedsheets. A few more strips serve to immobilize his arms and legs. Such bonds would never hold the Soldier, but his former master, it seems, is not very strong.

He proceeds to turn on his phone, knowing that the Avengers or SHIELD will soon trace him. He does not bother to send out any messages. They'll only think he is leading them into a trap. Or so he tells himself. It's _not_ because he's too scared to face the others. It's  _not._ He is strong and brave and capable, and he does not let cowardice or human weakness bow him. It's just that sending a text is unnecessary, that's all.

"I tend to become very unstable without my bear," he informs Pierce. It's odd, he notes, playing this part of a mission. He knows how to talk information out of hostages when necessary. In fact, he thinks he did a lot of that in the old days. In most recent memory, though, his handlers did the talking and he was a silent presence, a threat lurking in the shadows.

But such tactics aren't necessary here; Pierce knows and understands them very well. And anyway, the Soldier can't scare information out of a man who's got his mouth tied shut.

Although he wishes he could. Apparently he has been very uncooperative with the SHIELD agents.

"It's funny," he says, "When I initially came to visit you, I meant to tell you that I was free of you, but there's really no use in pretending that, is there? I _loved_ you, you know. There's a memory that's stuck with me even through all the recalibration, where I attempted to tell you I loved you and you shoved glass in my face. Do you remember that?"

Pierce twitches in his bindings, his face full of rage. There's a part of himself, a very  _little_ part of himself, cringing and shrinking back and begging for forgiveness. The Soldier envisions wrapping himself protectively around that terrified, helpless place inside him, almost like a blanket or a giant teddy bear. Standing tall in front of it, protecting it. Emotions tenuously under control, he forges on.

"You said I didn't know  _how_ to love. You said I didn't know what love was. That it was an _insult_ that I tried. And for the longest time I thought you must be right. Do you know what it's like to have everything burned out of your brain? I'm sure you don't, and if someone did it to you then I doubt your body or your mind could handle the strain. There wouldn't be enough _left_ of you to understand what you've done. Even with me, there was just enough of me remaining to put together a...a fragmented system of memories. No chronological timeline. No context. No sense to any of it. Of course I didn't feel in the same way people did. That was taken from me. If I seemed a like mockery of a human, it's because that's what _you_ had made of me."

The Soldier takes a couple slow, grounding breaths. He tenses his arms and relaxes them, just like Cornelius taught him in his earliest days at the Tower, back before medications leveled out his uncontrollable moods and emotions. It didn't really work all that well back then, but now it helps immensely. When he speaks again his voice has regained its steadiness.

"But I did  _love_. Looking back, I understand that now. I loved you. It was you who didn't love me, wasn't it? You were using me for what little I had left. You were using me as a weapon and a sex toy and a placeholder for something that, with all the love in the world, I could still never hope to be. Isn't that right? You never loved me, did you?  _Did you?_ "

Pierce doesn't offer up an answer, which isn't exactly surprising given that he has a large wad of bedsheet tied into his mouth, but it still frustrates the Soldier immensely. He won't do anything to Pierce, as he is wanted unharmed and the Soldier does not wish to create problems between Steve and SHIELD, so he settles for slamming his fist through the wall with wordless cry of rage. A framed painting falls to the floor and shatters, and it's such a waste, all those spacious, pretty houses and first-class hotel rooms and high-rate paintings lining the walls. Are those houses empty, still, or are there people living there now, unaware of everything that happened in those beautiful halls and sunlit rooms?

He slams his fist through the wall a couple more times, partly because he's still angry, but mostly because Pierce flinches when he does it and the Soldier finds that very satisfying. He imagines himself holding, shielding a frightened child in his mismatched arms, covering his eyes and whispering that this is just a bad dream and he'll be all right when he wakes. When he wakes, he can go to his daddy and everything will be okay again.

"I should visit you more often," the Soldier says thoughtfully, once he's stopped punishing the wall, "It's really a shame it'll never be allowed again. You can get me to open up about my feelings even more than my therapists can. You're very clever. I'm so glad we had this talk."

Pierce is glaring, but for the moment the Soldier feels impervious, unstoppable.

"I want you to know that I have a better master now. I know what love is. I always have. And I'll never hurt anyone for you again."

"Huh," interrupts a familiar voice, "Looks like my work's been done for me."

The Soldier freezes, coming down from his emotional high with an unpleasant jolt. Natasha stands in the doorway and it occurs to him that he has betrayed those who gave him shelter and care and compassion when he had nothing to give them in return. He has no reason to expect kindness from her, and yet as soon as she's in position, gun trained on the Secretary, she is asking the Soldier if he is okay.

Once he has answered in the affirmative, she places a phone call, giving SHIELD their location. The Soldier can hear Steve on the other end, and resists the urge to snatch the phone from Natasha's hand so that he can beg for forgiveness. That's going to have to wait.

The Secretary cringes back from her when she approaches, but she doesn't touch him. She only reaches behind his back and slips Bucky Bear out of his hand, tucking him under her arm.

"I'm sure you're aware I'm under orders not to kill you," she says, "But no one said I had to leave you in one piece. I'd stay very still right now if I were you."

The Soldier steps up beside her and flexes his metal arm just once. Whirring, the shiny plates undulate and snap into place. The Secretary stays very still.

*

They're on a plane, though Bucky heard Skye call it the Bus.

He's sitting on the floor with Daddy's arm wrapped tight around him. That's where they've been ever since they got on board. Bucky has allowed them to scan him for tracking devices, has answered their questions and apologized and told them everything his last daddy said. It's okay, and Bucky wants to help stop his last daddy from ever hurting anyone ever again. But Daddy doesn't leave him alone with Coulson or May, and Bucky is grateful. He's scared enough as it is.

When the plane first landed at the hotel, Daddy was bursting into the room and hugging him so tight he could hardly get in enough air to say sorry. He'd still been the Soldier then, and he'd panicked when Daddy hadn't answered his apologies. But when he'd begun to hyperventilate, Natasha had put Bucky Bear in his hand, and then he was little again and he realized the hug meant he was forgiven. Then he'd cried, and he'd panicked more because his last daddy was still there and crying is what very bad boys do. Daddy kept trying to soothe him, promising that everything was going to be okay. And he'd said some things to Bucky's last Daddy, bad things, and his last daddy couldn't answer because Bucky had put too much bedsheet in his mouth, but he kept giving them the coldest look of fury, and Bucky had a really bad panic attack. That's when Daddy took him onto the plane to get him calmed down. He hasn't let go since.

He tells Bucky he's so proud of him. Everyone is thanking Bucky for keeping the Secretary in one place long enough for them to find him. They say it doesn't matter that it's Bucky's fault he got out in the first place.

"In the long run, all you did was help us identify the weak points in our security," Coulson says, and Bucky jumps. He didn't realize the agent had come so close. Daddy had been hugging Bucky Bear and whispering how proud he was, but now Bucky snatches his bear back, holding him protectively under his arm. "Really, I should be recruiting you."

"Not a chance in hell," Daddy says flatly, tightening his hold on Bucky's shoulders. Coulson doesn't look upset, and he tells Daddy he'd only been joking. He suggests that Daddy might be a little overworked, and that perhaps he should take a break from going on missions. Daddy says Coulson may be right. He doesn't loosen his grip.

"Anyway, it  _wasn't_ your fault," Skye says from across the room. She has her elephant, the one she told Bucky about the time she visited the Tower, but she's not little right now. He wishes she was, or Tasha, or anyone at all. He's the only kid in a roomful of grown-ups, and he's been bad, and he still feels really scared and really ashamed and too stressed out to get big again. He hides his face in Daddy's shoulder, but he peeks out a little just so Skye will know he's still listening.

"He gave you an order, didn't he? One of those commands that you had to obey. They  _made_ you do all kinds of things, didn't they? We've seen that kind of thing before. And, listen." She's coming over to sit next to him and he hides his face again, but that doesn't seem to bother her. "You got out of his control, didn't you? You caught him again. You did the right thing." Her voice is really soft and quiet now. "You were so brave." _  
_

He's not brave. He's not brave, or good, or any of the things his last daddy used to tell him he'd been when he was lying to him. Bucky's crying again and he's not sure if he should correct her or say thank you, but his voice isn't really working anymore and so he can't do either.

Skye doesn't get offended, though. Bucky can hear her rummaging through her purse. "Hey, look what I found. Would this make you feel any better?" Slowly, he turns his head to look. She's holding a box of crayons. It doesn't have as many colors as the box Bucky has at home, but there are enough. When she says, "Come on, Bucky. Color with me," he reaches out with a tentative hand.

Her pictures aren't like his. Hers are mostly light swirls and scribbles with a few scattered smiley faces. But he tells her they're really nice anyway, because he's grateful and because she was right. Coloring has made him feel a whole lot better.

*

_The doorknob rattles._

_Alexander Pierce smiles to himself; he knew Barnes would come. The boy just can't help himself. Just can't stay away. Even after everything, Pierce still has him on a string. Knows just how to reel him in and jerk him around._

_The door swings open so slowly and quietly. It's hard to keep track of time in here, but it's probably past nightfall by now._

_Small footsteps. So cautious. So tentative. Waiting. He raises his head. Surprised. He'll act like he's surprised to see the child. Like he thought Barnes had truly forsaken him._

_And then his heart stops and his smile falls, faced with Romanoff's sharklike grin. He flinches back, despite himself._

_"What, you weren't expecting any visitors?" she says cheerfully, "You're lucky, you know. I'm not here to interrogate you. If that job was up to me...well. You remember what I said about staying in one piece?"_

_He tries to look amused, as though he's not intimidated. He is intimidated, of course. He's not stupid; he knows exactly who this woman is and what she's capable of. But he won't show fear. Won't give her that satisfaction._

_"But that's not my job. I'm just here to deliver a message of sorts. As you must be aware, Barnes won't be coming to see you again."_

_"Oh? Is that so?"_

_"SHIELD's rules. So yes, I suppose so."_

_"And Barnes sent you with some parting words for me?"_

_"In a way." Romanoff holds out a sheet of paper. Trying not to seem too eager, Pierce reaches out to take it, aiming for a mildly amused sort of look. Admittedly, he_ is _eager, and not just for news from his boy. He's been reading and re-reading the same books for months now. He'll never admit it, but he's starved for something new._

_He holds up the drawing. And stares._

_"Admittedly he's not exactly Michelangelo when he's five. Don't tell him I said that, by the way. Anyway, I can explain this, if you want. That right there's his bear, the Bucky Bear. I believe you were acquainted with Bucky Bear. There are some other Bearvengers in there too. Cute, right? That there's a red panda, that's Toothless the dragon over there, and we've got Ada Lovelace the computer-programming elephant, as I understand it. And a bumblebee. Some new friends of his. And that one in the middle...well, I think that's fairly self-explanatory, isn't it?"_

_Yes. Yes, it is. There's a blue bunny rabbit with floppy ears, all scribbled over in red. The other animals appear to be attacking it. There's a bear with what appears to be a hammer, about to pound the bunny on the head. There's a Captain Ameribear with red scribbled all over his mouth and paws. And there's a green bear in the corner of the page, with lines drawn to indicate that he's hurtling toward the bunny from the sky. In a speech bubble over his head reads the clumsily scrawled, "HULK BEAR SMASH!"_

_The R is backwards. Pierce makes a note to mention it, should the kid show up again._

_"So there's his goodbye message to you, and you can, uh...I don't know. Tape it to your wall, maybe. You certainly could use some sort of decor in here."_

_She's almost to the door when she stops. "Oh, hey. So I know how confinement goes. You're probably pretty hungry for news. Anything going on in the current world, anything at all. So I'll give you something for free. Really. What, you don't think I can be generous?"_

_He just looks at her._

_"Okay, so listen. You want to know how we found you so fast? I bet you were wondering."_

_Pierce tries to look bored. "I know Barnes turned his phone on."_

_"Yes, and that was very helpful. But we already had a list of your personal safehouses. We were assisted in locating them by one Brock Rumlow, who advised us to...let's see, what were his exact words...'go rescue that dumbass kid, and make sure the old fuck's really dead this time,' he said, 'Put a bullet up his ass if that's what it fucking takes.' I want you to know that if it were up to me you'd be getting exactly that." She gives him one last smile. "Enjoy solitary, Secretary Pierce."_

_After she leaves, he does tape the picture to his wall, right above the bed, because guilt is his best tool here and he wants the boy to have to see what he drew. Wants him to see that his Daddy misses him enough to tape even his most vicious drawings above his bed. Let him put it all together in his head, watch it play out on his face. Pierce has always been able to read his Snowflake like a book._

_Settling back on the bed in satisfaction, he waits, but the door doesn't open again._

*

"No," Bucky says, "I need a minute to think about it." 

He's sitting on the couch with his doctors, listing words and phrases that can help get him out of bad situations like this. They're all the kinds of things his last daddy would never have allowed him to say, and that's why his doctors want him to practice. So that even in a really bad situation he'll have the right words to help him, so that he'll be able to make them come out of his mouth.

So far he's practiced 'No' and 'Don't touch me' and 'I don't like that' and 'Stop'. After that, Miriam asked him to think of some other words that might be helpful. She's got a long list of things for him to practice saying over the next week.

His doctors have been telling him this whole session how brave and strong he was, how proud they are of him. Bucky's a little bit proud of himself, too, but also ashamed because it was his fault his last daddy got out in the first place. And also scared and empty and really, really sad because he was so bad to his last daddy, and he'll probably never love Bucky again and Bucky still isn't sure how he's going to live with that.

But everyone keeps reminding him that they don't blame him for what happened. And he can feel however he feels. And he has a Daddy still who loves him very much. A Daddy who loves him the _right_ way.

"I need a minute to think about it," he says again, testing the phrase, and Miriam smiles. 

"Great job, James," she says, "I'd like you to practice those on your own over the next couple of days, okay? Bucky Bear too. Will you both do that?"

Bucky Bear's fuzzy ears have perked up. They haven't given him a mission in what feels like ages. "He says yes."

"All right. Now, this  next one's important," she says, "And I want both you and Bucky Bear to practice saying it. It's 'help', James, and I'm hoping that you'll be able to say this one nice and loud, okay? ' _I need help'._  Both you and Bucky Bear."

"Um," Bucky says, because Bucky Bear really doesn't like that one. Bucky Bear is not weak, he's not a pathetic little  _baby_ , thank you very much. He is competent and fierce and capable and he does  _not_ plead for help like a frightened child. But then Bucky remembers another thing from Freddie, something she said her mom taught her.  _Phrasing_ means you can say something in a different way to make it better. "Can Bucky Bear say something else?"

"What would he say?"

"He'd say, 'I require assistance,'" 

"That would work too," Miriam says, "As long as he can say it nice and loud."

So Bucky practices saying "I need help," and then he says, "I require assistance," because Bucky Bear is saying it, just like they wanted, but they don't speak Bear. And at the end of the session, Cornelius tells him that both he and Bucky Bear have done very well. 

Bucky Bear glows with pride, and Bucky makes a note to thank Freddie in his next email.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The bumblebee in Bucky's drawing is Crystal's favorite stuffed toy, Beezus. And, of course, he has the Bearvengers and Toothless and Skye's elephant, Ada Lovelace, who is the creation of [celestialskiff](http://archiveofourown.org/users/celestialskiff/pseuds/celestialskiff) and appears in the [Found Family](http://archiveofourown.org/series/153764) series as well as in [What Do You Offer?](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4630899)


	12. Irredeemable

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _To see his master hurting makes the Soldier hurt, too. To cause his master pain is akin to cutting off his own breath._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Blood and self-harm warnings for this one.

The Soldier is supposed to try not to let his paranoia get in the way of therapy. But there's something suspicious in the whole practice, and it's not just because Cornelius and Miriam are  _doctors._

He's heard it explained over and over, that doctors aren't always people with tools trying to poke and prod and pick him apart. It was a team of doctors who examined his condition after Steve first found him. Doctors adjusted his medication to work with his metabolism and helped him figure out what he could and couldn't eat. Doctors ascertained that he didn't have any HYDRA trackers in him, and doctors have been making sure he's okay for all the time he's been here. Banneris a doctor and he'd used his practice to make people feel better.

But his therapy doctors can get him to  _talk,_ and that's what the Soldier finds unsettling.

He's trained not to crack under severe torture. He doesn't give away information unless he's meant to do so. He _never_ exposes weakness.

Or he didn't, until he met Cornelius and Miriam. And even if they really, truly want to help him, as everyone always says, it still makes the Soldier deeply uneasy that they can get him to reveal things he hadn't even known about himself. 

In this case, it's the long-term effects of a memory he hasn't discussed with anyone. He's even refused to recount it to the doctors, which makes him nervous even if they do say he can decline to share his thoughts if he prefers. He hadn't even meant to reveal this much. How frail he must seem, how irrational. One minute he was getting defensive about a question Cornelius had asked, and the next, he was rambling on about Pierce disciplining the child long ago.

( _Abusing,_ he hears Steve say in his head,  _torture is not discipline, Bucky._  But the Soldier struggles to see it that way. Is it really abuse even if he'd done something wrong?)

"So Pierce called you weak and pathetic when you'd done something he thought was wrong, and then he punished you for these perceived transgressions," Cornelius says. The doctors often summarize what he's said, to give him a chance to correct them.

It was weak, pathetic, and  _disgusting_ that Pierce had called him, but the Soldier doesn't correct Cornelius this time. He doesn't want them to get him talking about the specifics of that punishment, or the circumstances leading up to it. He only gives a brief nod, ducking his head to hide his flushed cheeks.

"And that instance is still affecting you at times when you fear you're being perceived as weak."

"Yes. But I hadn't realized that until today."

"Well, that's often the case," Miriam says, "Sometimes we don't realize that hurtful things from the past are resurfacing in our present lives. That's why it can help to talk about these things. Catching it is the first step towards making it better."

"And when you do recognize this affecting you," Cornelius adds, "you might start by reminding yourself that you don't have to believe it's true. It was something told to you by Pierce, and a lot of what Pierce did was intended to condition you into responding the way he wanted you to. So there are really two things to remember—you don't have to think it's true, and you don't have to believe that others perceive you the way he said he did. Are you following me?"

The Soldier nods. That's something Cornelius asks after saying something complicated, in case he needs to explain it more clearly. But those are things he's heard both his doctors say plenty of times.  

But usually he finds them reassuring. Today it doesn't help much. Whenever that memory surfaces he cannot stop thinking about it. About the look in his master's eyes, the way he'd asked how the child could ever expect him to love something as filthy as himself. The Soldier feels sick and scared all over again, feels like a frightened child being told that he can never be loved again. Even after all this time... 

"It still hurts," he mutters, frowning. It does hurt, physically, in his stomach and his throat and his chest. Somewhere else, too, some deeper place in him he cannot name. "Nothing makes it stop hurting. It still hurts."

"Well," Miriam says, "that's a natural response, especially given that—"

But something else has occurred to the Soldier.

"It still  _hurts!_ " He's not supposed to interrupt the doctors, but this problem takes precedence over all else because it pertains to his master and because he cannot think of a way to solve it. Panic attacks, he'd thought, were for the child and for Barnes, but the head-spinning fear is winding its way through his ribcage and making him short of breath. He's more horrified than he's ever been before. Aside, perhaps, from that mission where leeches affixed themselves to his legs.

"James?"

"To do something. To cause another person distress. I know that's bad, but—" another memory is blooming in his head. Steve's face, wounded, his brow creased and his eyes wet. To see his master hurting makes the Soldier hurt, too.

"We can take a minute—"

"Steve," he says, "I need Steve."

His concern is all-consuming and yet Steve and the doctors insist he calm down before he tries to talk about it. So he sits, forcing wheezing breaths in and out while Miriam counts to ten. When he is able to put together a full sentence he bursts out, "I hurt you."

Steve frowns at him. "Where is this coming from, Buck? I don't...help me understand, okay?"

"Pierce said something distressing, years ago and I only realized today it was still causing me damage, and." He forces in another breath. "When I—when I was bad, when you took Bucky Bear and I yelled at you all day. I  _hurt_ you."

"Well, yeah," Steve says, his voice inexplicably soft now, "But we talked about this, remember? You apologized and I forgave you. I'm not angry."

"Not angry," The Soldier struggles to explain, "But what I said, I meant it to...I _meant_ it to hurt you." He has to force the words out through his shame. To cause his master pain is akin to cutting off his own breath.

"You were upset." Steve shrugs, "I understand. Do you want to talk about any of that?"

"I never realized it could still be affecting you _now,_ " the Soldier says shakily, "Is it?"

"Well," Steve says, in the careful way he speaks to the child when he's trying to soften an emotional blow, "I realized I'd made mistakes that day, yes. And so I started taking steps to fix—"

" _Hurting_ you. Detrimental to your emotional and mental health," The Soldier clarifies, "Is it?"

And the look on Steve's face is so sad. And the Soldier is crying, crying even though Steve's the one who was hurt, because he's just horrible that way. He's an awful, irredeemable thing, just like his former master always said when he was angry. Worthless, and worse than that. Because it's not that he's never done damage, but he always atoned for it. He always fixed it. But—

"It never goes away," he keeps saying into Steve's shoulder, having been pulled into an undeserved embrace, "No matter what anyone says, nothing can make it go away. I've damaged you  _forever._  I'm so sorry. Please, if there's anything that can fix it, I'll do it. I just want to make it better. _Please,_ Sir, I'm sorry."

He can hardly bear the unwarranted kindness with which they explain it. That that kind of damage can't be so easily undone. That words cannot be taken back.

He knew it was wrong to say such horrible things to his master, but he never realized the hurt would last. That his master will _keep_ hurting, day after day without end, because of the Soldier. And that nothing he can do will take it away.

He is irredeemable and he does not deserve the words of comfort whispered in his ear, the hand stroking his back, his master's unwavering compassion. He deserves nothing.

*

Pancakes.

The Soldier bolts awake in bed, heart pounding from the remnants of a nightmare, with that one thought in his head. It's the inspiration he needs to solve his latest problem. He's the Winter Soldier and he does  _not_ fail to properly address malfunctions and errors.

At the house in the snow, the Commander made him chocolate-chip pancakes, and that had made him feel infinitely better. Pancakes fix things, don't they?

In therapy yesterday, he had begged them to put him in the chair. They had all said no, and suddenly, in the darkness of the early-morning hours, he understands why. It would be an easy correction to his latest misbehavior, but the main reason he asked for the recalibration was purely selfish, and he knows it. He wants to forget what he did, and that would be too easy. It wouldn't  _really_ deal with the problem. Steve would still remember, even if the Soldier did not.

There has to be a better way. And giving the Soldier chocolate-chip pancakes  _always_ makes him feel better when he's upset.

So he takes an early shower, puts a "self-care" star on his chart, and heads out with the shield-shaped backpack slung over his shoulder.

"You're fucking kidding me," the Commander groans as he rolls over on the couch, "You woke me up at five in the _goddamn_ morning to make pancakes for Mr. Righteous Ass because you threw a tantrum two _months_ ago?"

"Your pancakes are the best pancakes," the Soldier insists, and the Commander's face softens, which sends relief through the Soldier's entire body. He's already hurt Steve; he couldn't stand it if the Commander was upset with him too. He had to be here before dawn, because Steve often gets up early to exercise or work. It occurs to him that he could have gotten someone in the Tower to help him cook, but he's determined to get Steve  _these_ pancakes. They have to be  _perfect._

The Commander assigns tasks such as stirring and adding chocolate chips, carefully shielding the ingredients so the Soldier cannot memorize the process. It's  _his_ secret recipe, the Commander insists, and it's all he has going for him, so it's going to  _stay_ secret.

"I'll have to come back, then," the Soldier says, "I have to keep making breakfast for Steve."

"Fan-fucking-tastic," the Commander mutters, "Don't you ever sleep, Soldier?"

"Much more than I used to." He's not supposed to be out of bed yet, actually, and he'll be forfeiting a star on his chart for breaking the rules of his sleep schedule. But sometimes, sacrifices have to be made.

He gets another two stars on the chart, anyway, for surprising Steve with the pancakes. But then the two of them eat together and, experimentally, the Soldier thinks back to his former master saying that he's pathetic and disgusting.

Shame flares up in him and it still hurts as much as it ever did. The pancakes didn't fix it, and that means they probably didn't fix Steve either.

Neither do all the chores the Soldier completes throughout the day. He scrubs floors and stovetops, organizes his closet, does several loads of laundry, and shines a couple pairs of shoes because that always makes Steve smile. It also makes the others ask what the hell happened to their shoes, but pleasing Steve is the Soldier's highest priority.

He performs each task well aware that he's trying to lie to himself and it's not working. He knows, deep down, that this problem can't be solved by a stack of pancakes or a few scrubbed toilets.

Something else has to be done.

*

"Buck." Steve's breathless in the doorway of the elevator, and the Soldier quickly shifts in his seat to hide his right side. He has no shirt, so the stinging marks and dripping blood would be plainly visible if he were to turn back around. "JARVIS told me you were hurting yourself."

"Not badly," the Soldier assures him. He knows this is something he's not supposed to do, but he also knows it is the last resort, a way to make up for failures that cannot be undone. "I had to atone. There needed to be punishment."

"Atone for..." Steve's face scrunches in confusion, and then his eyes turn sad. "Is this about therapy yesterday?"

The Soldier cannot help breaking eye contact, ducking his head. "I had to. Have to. I was bad."

He remembers what consequences are, and that with HYDRA everything always went back to normal after punishment had been administered. Beginning to slice at his arm, he'd heard Steve's voice in his head, saying _that's not how we do things,_  but—

_"You’re a bad daddy and I hope you get eaten by bears."_

_(Daddy's eyes, confused and welling with tears)_

_"Sarah Rogers was a whore who probably died with syphilis in her lungs. Not TB."_

_(A kind, smiling lady with long gold hair carefully pinned up. She used to joke that he was pretty much her other son. She fed him home-baked bread and cookies and she worried over Steve when he got sick.)_

_(The hard, flat set to Daddy's mouth, the deep sadness below that—)_

_(She used to call Steve 'lamb'.)_

—he'd been so desperate and so sick with himself, this had seemed like the only acceptable solution. He  _wanted_ to hurt.

"We've talked about this, Buck." Steve sounds so  _disappointed._ The Soldier's insides constrict with shame. "You'll never be punished like that, not here."

"But it's the only way to fix it," The Soldier whispers. He feels dizzy. There's blood running down his arm, and he tries to blot at it without his master having to see.

Steve's walking over now, placing a hand on his shoulder. "Come here, let me look at you."

He doesn't want to, but that was an order. "I didn't touch any knives or other sharp objects," he tells Steve, turning in his seat, "I used the plates in my hand."

Steve takes hold of that hand, squeezing it so that the Soldier can feel faint warmth breaking through the cold of the limb. "Sweetheart," he begins, looking lost, "Sweetheart, just stay right here for a minute, okay?"

Then Steve's gone, but he soon returns with a medical kit in his hand. He carefully disinfects the Soldier's wounds, his eyes shiny and wet. It's not until after he's covered every cut in Avengers-themed band-aids and pressed kisses to the patched-up wounds that he finally speaks.  "Bucky, listen to me. If you're feeling that bad, come talk to me. Or call your doctors, or anyone. But don't hurt yourself like this. Please."

"It's not hurting," he whispers, "It's helping. It makes me redeemable, to have been punished." He  _had_ to do it.  _Needed_ to.

"I told you I forgave you," Steve says immediately, "I'm not mad at you, Bucky, but you can't do this again."

"I just want to be good," he whispers, "But if it never stops affecting you, the  _bad_ never goes  _away._ I have to atone."

"Buck..." Steve's eyes look so bewildered. Wounded. "That's not how it works. You can't...you won't fix anything by hurting yourself. Sweetheart, I don't ever want you to think you have to hurt yourself. Don't do this, honey."

He's done something else he's not supposed to. He was  _so desperate_ to make things better, and now it's worse. "Then what do I do?"

"We talked about it, remember?" But they've talked about a lot of things and the Soldier is near tears and he cannot for the life of him guess what it is Steve wants him to remember. "We apologize, Buck. And forgive. Then we move on. Look," he scoots his chair closer, "No one's perfect. People get upset. And then they do things they regret, sometimes. Remember what your doctors said? You learn from it. You let it make you better. That's the best thing you can do after you hurt someone, Buck, and I _know_ how hard you've been trying."

"But that still never fixes it!" The Soldier insists. He's not supposed to hurt anyone at all, let alone his master. To damage him permanently...Pierce would never have loved him again. Pierce would have—

"That's...Buck. _Please_ . Don't destroy yourself to try and atone for...it won't help. We're going to get better, together. Look, I...I'm not gonna lie, a lot of the things you said _did_ hurt. But...it won't help anything to drag up your mistakes again and again. I wouldn't do that to you. I'll always love you, Buck. You know that, right? I still loved you so much, even when you were having a bad day."

_I hate you. I wish I was still with my other daddy._

"I know," the Soldier says hopelessly, his head flashing images of Pierce and his eyes full of cold, sad disappointment _,_  "I just don't understand  _why._ " 

There had been tears running steadily down his master's face when he'd said it. He'd _meant_ to do it. He didn't mean to make Steve cry now, but the tears are falling anyway and it seems like the Soldier has only ever been good for hurting people. He can't be anything else if he tries.

But when Steve reaches for him, the Soldier allows himself to be pulled into his master's lap and held as if he was the child. 

"You will," Steve promises him over and over, tilting the Soldier's chin up until their eyes meet, "Because I promise you that you deserve it, sweetheart. Someday you'll understand that and I promise I'll help you get there."

His master doesn't lie. And he sounds so very serious about this. Like it's the most important thing in the world for the Soldier to understand that even with everything he's done, even with the messes he's made, he is something of worth. That he deserves to be loved.

And so, just for the moment, the Soldier can begin to believe it, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I always worry I'm taking too many liberties with the characters, but I really wanted to write this. So far the Soldier's moral code has mostly been "my parameters say this is good and that's bad" and he's still working on the whole "actions have consequences" thing. I liked the idea of him suddenly gaining a bit of a higher understanding and not knowing how to cope with that.
> 
> And I also loved the idea of Winter pestering Rumlow into making pancakes for Steve, because Winter's the best and because it's fun to mess with Rumlow.


	13. The Abominable Snowman

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky struggles to adjust to the Avengers' absence from the Tower. Luckily, Pepper's there to help.

Everyone's gone. 

Bucky's used to Daddy leaving. In fact, it wasn't that long ago he thought his Daddy might never come back, because Bucky had upset him so bad. Since then, Daddy's promised to always love him, but Bucky's still not sure that can really be true.

Now, though, there's a mission that requires all the Avengers, so it's just Pepper and Bucky at home. The Tower feels really empty when everyone else isn't here. He keeps thinking he'll go get Bruce to read him a story, or watch Tony in the lab or play with Tasha. And then he'll remember they're all gone.

He finds himself staying very, very close to Pepper. She seems to understand, and she hasn't left him alone once since the Quinjet took off.

"We could make cookies," she says, "or brownies, or anything. That might take your mind of things, and there would be treats for everyone else when they get back."

"'Kay." He doesn't know how to make anything. He's not sure if he should, or if Pepper will expect him to. There's so much he doesn't know here, and that makes him nervous because it means there are lots of ways he can be bad without meaning to.

But Pepper tells him what she wants him to do, so he doesn't have to worry. First, she gets out all the ingredients for fudge brownies. Bucky isn't allowed to use the stove, but he can mix stuff up for her in bowls.

First things first. He picks up the bag of flour, just like she said, and rips open the top to pour it into a bowl. That part, at least, isn't difficult. His metal hand easily tears a large hole.

"James,  _careful—_ " 

He flinches, but it's too late. White powder spills out of the bag all at once and swirls up into the air. For a moment all Bucky can see is a white cloud. Flour's on his shirt and his lap and all over the table and he's whimpering. He _always_ messes up. 

"It's okay," Pepper says quickly, "You didn't know. Accidents happen." Her voice has gone so soft, and Bucky's relieved and shaking and taking ragged breaths. He's already been bad. He can't cry, too.

"Sorry I messed up our brownies," he mumbles. Even if she's not mad, he feels awful. She planned this just for him and he  _ruined_ it.

" _Sweetie._ It's fine. I can just get more flour."

He blinks uncomprehendingly for a moment, unsure if this catastrophe can really be  _fixed,_ just like that _._ "But the mess..."

"Messes happen, too. Believe me, I've dealt with bigger ones than this just from having Tony around." She's looking at him funny and he's not sure what it means.

"I'm such an  _idiot..._ " he _can't_ cry. He _can't_.

"No, you're not," Pepper says firmly, pulling up a chair to sit in front of him, "I should have told you to measure it out. Flour's a mess." He keeps ducking his head because her face is so sympathetic and soft that if he looks at her he'll burst into tears.

But when he glances back up, she's giving him that funny look again. Almost like she's _laughing_ at him, Bucky Bear notes with alarm. "What?"

"Let me show you." She's smiling, so he lets her snap a picture with her phone. When she holds it out, he sees why. He's covered in white. It's in his hair, all over his face and shirt and down his arms. Only his eyes stand out, dark and confused in the powdery mess. "You look like the Abominable Snowman, sweetie. I've _got_ to send this to Steve."

"No!" he blurts out, then flinches.  _No_ is bad, it's rude and ungrateful and disobedient—or is that only if he says it to Daddy? Either way, he yelled at Pepper and she's probably mad at him now and—

"James, what's wrong?"

He takes a few shaky breaths. "I made a mess..."

"He won't be  _mad_ at you, sweetheart. Really."

Maybe not. Really, maybe not. He hasn't been mad about lots of other things that would have gotten Bucky the belt with his last daddy. But it's not just that. He wants to be loved, yes, and he doesn't want Daddy to be mad at him, but there's something else. Daddy has to try really hard to be around him, Bucky can tell. Daddy's tired, or worried, or sad all the time. He's not  _proud_ of Bucky. 

And why should he be? Bucky hasn't been good. He's been weak and he doesn't know things he should know and he reminds Daddy of his time with HYDRA and makes him really sad. Bucky's got enough to be ashamed of already without everyone telling Daddy of all the times he messes up when he's  _not_ around.

A tear trickles down his cheek.

"Oh, James, I'm sorry." Pepper squeezes his hand. "It's rough on you when the others aren't here, isn't it?"

He sniffles and nods, head bent.

"Let's take a few minutes to calm down," she soothes, "I promise I won't send that picture if you don't want."

So they just sit, Bucky sniffling and Pepper holding his hand. After, she brushes him down with her hands, flour drifting off him in little puffs, and it tickles and he can't help laughing. Once he's all cleaned up Pepper says they can try again with the brownies. This time he's really careful, and Pepper watches him and tells him how to do it. Soon the kitchen smells like chocolate and Pepper's helping a giggling Bucky put on a clean shirt.

When the others get back it's like breathing again; a heavy weight lifts from Bucky's chest. He kept telling himself that Daddy's super-strong and he can handle anything, but there was a part of him that was scared he wouldn't ever come back. He can't help feeling timid, unsure if Daddy will want to see him when he's probably tired and worn-out.

But when Daddy catches sight of him he holds out his arms, and Bucky launches into them, hugging tight.

"Missed you," Daddy murmurs, squeezing back, "Were you okay while we were gone?"

"Me and Pepper made brownies," he mumbles, which isn't the answer to Daddy's question, exactly, but it makes Bucky's tummy hurt to think about lying to him and he can't tell the truth. He wasn't okay at all without everyone here, but if he says so Daddy will be disappointed in him. He was supposed to be good. He was supposed to be brave.

Pepper holds the plate carefully, making sure that Daddy and Tasha and Bruce each have a brownie before letting Tony and Clint fight over the rest. Daddy makes a noise of enjoyment that Bucky feels against his chest because he's still holding so tight. "Mm. They're perfect, Buck."

 _Perfect._  Bucky breathes a sigh of utmost relief. He feels the lifting of a weight that's been resting on him for so long he almost forgot he was carrying it. Finally,  _finally,_ he did something right.  _Perfect._

He buries his face in Daddy's shoulder and glows with happiness.


	14. Love Is For Children

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Tasha hadn't confided, but she must have been slipping. Or maybe she wanted to be found out, deep down, really._

Like she wasn't feeling messed up  _enough,_ life had to give her  _this_ to deal with.

And no matter how much time goes by, no matter what she's been through, it still hurts with a constant, pulsing sort of urgency. It never stops. It never goes away.

It's worse when she's little; nothing screws up her headspace more than the all too grown-up matter of the thick warmth steadily dripping from between her legs, the inner cramping ache and everything it represents.

No position can make her any more comfortable, but it does help when Pepper comes over with a hot pack for her to hold against her stomach, curling herself around it and squeezing it to her.

There's another pack, too. This one is filled with ice, to hold to the bruise throbbing on one side of her face.

They're in the penthouse, in Pepper's living room. She's been coming here more and more in the past couple months. At first, it was just to talk, to have another woman to talk to about life stuff. She'd been hesitating on the verge of really trusting her, and it had eventually been the aching and bleeding that had brought down all her barriers. It always has messed her up.

She'd never have admitted how badly she'd been craving the care Pepper had slowly started to give her. When she first began to bleed, back when she was a little girl for real, no one had sat her down with a hot pack and gently explained that this is what the body does, this is how it makes a baby—

 _Only they_ took _that, they_ took _it from me, why did they have to leave_ this? 

Pepper had done all that for her. Tasha hadn't confided, but she must have been slipping. Or maybe she wanted to be found out, deep down, really. Because Pepper started brushing her hair and fixing it up when Tasha could have done it herself. Pepper found excuses to give her little presents and be extra nice to her and before long Tasha was coming to her to talk about deeper, more personal problems. To ask advice. Or just to sit and watch TV and let Pepper play with her hair for a while.

_Tasha's being weak. And even now, even after all this time, her instinct is screaming at her that she shouldn't do this._

"I know it hurts," Pepper says soothingly, squeezing her hand, and Tasha's not sure which pain she means. "It'll be all right."

After she started going to her, it didn't take long before Tasha started feeling out the territory of this newfound acceptance, or whatever this was. She was tentative, though she could never show it, but she'd so badly wanted to know if it was safe to ask for things, to ask for  _this._ She'd never admitted out loud that her being little was for anything other than Bucky's health. For his recovery. To make him feel safer and happier, less alone.

Has she been that obvious, or is it only Pepper and Bucky who can see right through that?

Well, she'd certainly been obvious the day she got Pepper to teach her to braid Bucky's hair. If it wasn't apparent then that he had no interest whatsoever in hair-braiding, it definitely is  _now._

"He _hit_ me," she whispers, staring at the ceiling and feeling stupid and wrecked and far too vulnerable for her own good. She can't stay little enough to feel safe, not with the drip-drip-dripping ooze flowing out of her and everything it means and doesn't mean for her future. But she can't seem to get big, either. She's just messed-up and stuck and tired and so done with everything.

She's  _trying,_ isn't she, to get better after everything that ever happened to her? But what if getting better means taking risks that common sense would never allow?

(Sometimes, before she can catch it,  _common sense_ comes through in the voice of her old instructor.)

Pepper's hesitant, choosing her words carefully. "I'm sorry, sweetheart. He's not acting very nicely today. I know that must have felt really bad."

"It was my fault, not his," she whispers, because she touched his hair, and she came up behind him without warning, and she's been so selfish and so stupid and she should have kept this as something separate from herself, something entirely for Bucky, she was always warned about letting personal desires get in the way of end goals and now look—

"It wasn't your fault," Pepper says, quietly and firmly, "It's never your fault when someone hits you."

_You might not say that if you knew the circumstances behind every time I've been hit._

"I made him panic. He didn't mean to hit me. He was sorry after, but I was..." _Scared_ _. Shocked. Felt stupid for letting myself think anything could ever be safe for me. That's not what I was meant for. Those kinds of things aren't for me and I'd do best to remember that._

She makes herself stop. She's slipping back into a dangerous way of thinking. Those words, those exact words, come from a place still lurking deep inside her and from somewhere long ago and far away. She tells herself to stop it. She tells herself she is a person just like everyone else in the Tower. She can have a safe space if she wants.

But does she? Will it feel safe anymore, after what's happened?

"It wasn't your fault," Pepper promises, gathering Tasha's hair and brushing through it with her fingers. She keeps on brushing even after all the knots have been worked out.

The question is, could she even give it up?

She curses herself for getting so attached to something that'll only make her weak, and then she tells herself she can have those things if she wants them, and she's just going around in circles, isn't she?

"It was a misunderstanding," she mumbles, "I should just go talk to him. If I avoid him it'll only make everything more complicated."

"Do you feel like talking to him?" Pepper asks softly, beginning to braid her hair to one side. There's no way it'll fully cover the bruise on her face, but then, why should she hide it? Why does she feel ashamed? She's worn visible bruises before. Everyone knows they come with her line of work.

"I don't know," she admits.

"You can take some time apart from him," Pepper says, "If there's anything you need to figure out. He might not be in the best mood to listen right now anyway. He yelled at me earlier when I went in to talk to him."

"He  _yelled_ at you? What did he say?"

Pepper hesitates a bit. "It doesn't really matter."

 _That_ makes her angry. That's what makes her want to go back and shake Bucky and ask him who the hell he thinks he is, that he can act that way. Instead, she shifts on the couch, groaning a bit. She's not going to go talk to him now, not while she's so mad at him. That would only make things so much worse for both of them.

She sighs, and tries to let it go. Pepper's right. She does need time to level her head, because it's not in a stable place at the moment and she knows it. 

It takes a minute for her to be able to make the request. "Can you tell me a story?"

"I don't know what you'd want to hear," Pepper gives her a little smile, "My life's not that eventful compared to yours." 

She'd really like to be read to. She likes old fairy tales and junior detective stories. But she can't quite admit that, not yet, maybe not ever. "Anything's fine."

That's when the elevator _dings_ and she stiffens, hastily straightening up on the couch.

"Nat, I've been looking for you." Clint almost completely manages to cover his moment of shock at the sight of her face. He knows her don't-you-dare-ask look and he also knows what it means when she's slumped on a couch clutching a heating pad. Despite extensive evidence to the contrary, he doesn't actually want to die. "Was just thinking of running target drills. Haven't really kept up since my hearing went out."

"Yeah," she says, knowing there's no hiding this goddamned bruise. Some will be a little less obvious in their pretending not to stare. They'll be so  _concerned_ about her. They'll ask how she got it. Or, if they already know, they'll ask if she's  _okay._

She's really, really glad she's not a blusher. When Bucky's humiliated his cheeks turn bright pink. She always knows when she needs to change the subject for him, or help him get through a bad situation, as long as she can see his face...

"Yeah, sure." She stands, sighs. "Let's go shoot things with arrows." 

"We can bitch about our husbands," he says, straight-faced.

"And our goddamned job. Wait, who's your husband?"

"Fury.  _Obviously._ But I feel like he doesn't really appreciate me." Clint sighs. "He's been coming to the apartment, asks a bunch of questions, doesn't stick around."

"Typical." She forces a smile. It's weird how strange it feels to do that now, because she used to all the time. But in the past year, she realizes, most of her smiles haven't been forced at all.

Pepper's behind her, pressing an Advil bottle into her palm, gently squeezing for maybe a second or two longer than necessary. "You can keep that. I have plenty."

"Thanks." She only barely keeps herself from adding  _Mommy_.

 _Focus._ Gym. Joking with Clint. The rhythmic thumping in rapid succession as they hit target after target. These are things she knows, things that will make sense. She pockets the pills, not entirely sure she should welcome the warm, soft feeling of comfort falling over her like a blanket, and goes off to shoot some things with arrows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really liked the idea of Pepper subtly mommying Natasha, never forcing her to admit how much she wants it but letting her gradually become more and more open about it. Mommy Pepper. I just really like Mommy Pepper.


	15. It Takes Your Mind Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"It's not healthy to keep pushing yourself through more than you can handle."_
> 
> Even the most masterful operatives have their struggles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter would take place perhaps a couple months after the events of The Monster Inside of Me.
> 
> It also turned out _way_ longer than I meant it to. Holy shit.

The only sound is the hum of the refrigerator. It's been humming for hours in the unlit kitchen where the Soldier has been sitting and staring at a juice stain on the table. That ever-present drone is at the forefront of his mind, everything else reduced to background noise no matter how hard the Soldier tries to focus. He's been foggy for some time now; he couldn't say how many hours have passed, only that the fridge has kept up its constant, steady hum for the whole time.

(Why does he even have a refrigerator? There's hardly any food in it, since he's not allowed to cook on his own. Since he's so useless now he can't even look at a knife.)

He should be working on his assigned tasks. He was  _going_ to work on his assigned tasks. He started out very well this morning by eating half a box of cereal. He eats a lot of cereal because he cannot use the stove, and he spoons it up dry from the box because his stomach still isn't good with milk.

Which is actually what he was thinking about, he reflects, when everything started to go wrong. Cereal and milk, he doesn't like milk, he—

A glass of milk. Something wrong, on the edge of his mind.

 _Breaking glass in his head, breaking glass_ —

 _You don't know what love_ is!

He was only gone for a second. Just a flashback, attacking him out of nowhere, and all at once he was scared and desperate and all he wanted in the world was to get Pierce to smile at him again—

He almost slammed his metal fist through the table. He couldn't break the table, it would be  _bad_ to break the table, so he'd hunched over and shoved both hands into his hair, grasping tight. He was in the Tower, in the Tower and not there and no one would shove glass in his face or tell him he had to earn love, not ever, ever again because Pierce was _dead,_ he was dead and gone forever and he would never again, would never—

He hadn't realized that he was rocking violently in his chair until the whole thing tipped back and he was  _falling and falling, he screamed helplessly as—_

He came back to reality shouting. One flailing hand grabbed onto the table and he almost dragged the whole damn thing down with him. He managed to rescue himself with little grace, sliding into a heap on the floor. To his great shame, he found himself curled in a wheezing, sobbing ball, scooting under the table in a way much more fitting for the child than the world's most highly trained operative.

He wore himself out eventually, cried dry and exhausted, clinging to the table leg to keep upright. When he did manage to pick himself up off the floor, he was vaguely aware of the need for water. But he could hardly make his legs move to get to the sink, and he found himself spaced-out and staring at the running faucet for God knows how long.

He ended up sitting at the table trying to get himself under control, but he can't, he just can't, and it's starting to make him panic. He's the Winter Soldier and he should be able to recover from this but now he just feels like he does on the days when he wakes up and he can't get himself out of bed.

He should do his missions.

It's all he can focus on and he still hasn't done it and when his master comes to check on him there will be no excuses. He'll have to admit his uselessness and when he's asked exactly why—

"Buck?"

He just about jumps out of his chair. Well, there's his energy back. In fact, now he cannot seem to sit still. He can't look at Steve. His fingers twist together and his stomach is a tense knot.

"JARVIS said he thought you might need some help," Steve says, "Said he tried to ask how you were doing, and you weren't hearing him."

Did that happen? The Soldier cannot remember. He begins to shake.

"You doing okay, buddy?"

The Soldier does not know how to answer. He hangs his head and fixes his gaze on the same spot on the table he was staring at before.

"So you can hear me," Steve says softly, "It's all right. I'm gonna stay here until you're okay."

He nods, hair swinging in his face. Yes, Steve can help him. Someone has to fix him. He must have damaged himself; he doesn't know how to explain it and they don't do recalibration here but he needs  _something._ There has to be  _something._

But when Steve asks him if there's anything he can do to help, the Soldier only whispers, "Water." He never did get himself any before.

Did he? He's having trouble remembering. There was a glass—

—a glass of  _milk._

He flinches as it touches his mouth, but there are no shards stabbing into his skin, only water dripping down his face.

"Sorry, Bucky," Steve murmurs, "I should've let you know I was there."

He takes the water gratefully and then there is cool, momentary relief.

Immediately followed by uncontrollable shivering.

Steve gets an arm around him and leads him over to the couch. A blanket is wrapped around him and he pulls it tight. Steve's hand is on his shoulder, steady and grounding, his face full of concern. "I've got you, Bucky. You can take your time. Tell me what's wrong."

How can he tell Steve what's wrong when there is so  _much_ and he doesn't know where to begin?

And all the while he's supposed to be completing today's missions and now he won't have time, he's failing and—

"I'm  _useless,_ " he whispers, and out of nowhere, the tears begin to fall.

He is pulled into an embrace, and he flushes with shame as snot and tears are wiped from his face again and again, and that's when the whole story comes out in ugly, choking gasps. He doesn't even know why he is crying anymore, only that he cannot seem to stop. He feels as if something inside him has been shaken up and still hasn't settled, and he can't do anything about it but let more tears fall. Everyone keeps telling him he is a human and does not have malfunctions, but this feels like one and he has to stop himself from begging to be fixed. He's scared, but he isn't to ask for the chair. Doing that makes Steve look very sad, and displeasing Steve is abhorrent to him. And for some reason, when Steve is sad, the Soldier feels deeply sad too.

Yes, he is human, but wasn't the point of his creation to overcome the weaknesses that hinder human beings? He cannot be the perfect asset while allowing the excuse of being human to hold him back.

He cries even more. He still doesn't know why. Steve holds him and promises that this isn't a malfunction. That he's recovering. This doesn't feel like recovery, and the Soldier is frightened.

Feelings are _human_ , Steve insists.

The Soldier isn't sure he wants to be human.

When the tears have stopped, he feels more exhausted than he did before, but his mind is somehow clearer and he makes a note to himself that perhaps crying does serve a useful function besides displaying weakness. "I'm sorry. I'd be able to complete my assignments now."

"Hold on," Steve says, squeezing his shoulder, "You're not going to do all ten. We're going down to five today."

"But—" the Soldier begins to panic, but he cuts himself off, going still so as not to show distress.

"What, Bucky? It's okay, you can say what you want," Steve encourages.

He doesn't want to say it. Arguing with a handler is _bad,_ even if they don't punish for it here. He sits in stomach-wrenching turmoil, with Steve looking at him expectantly, until finally he can't stand it anymore. "I'm sorry, sir. I'm not sure what's causing this, but I still can perform all main functions. Just give me a chance, I can do it."

"But you shouldn't have to. It's not healthy to keep pushing yourself through more than you can handle."

"I _can_ handle it!" He's proving himself wrong with every octave his voice rises, with the threat of tears stinging his eyes, "I've _been_ handling it!"

"And today you can't," Steve says evenly, "You're having a breakdown. I should've been making sure you were doing okay."

He shouldn't _have_ breakdowns. He should be able to gauge and maintain his own mental state. This is the kind of thing the chair would correct.

"This isn't a punishment, Buck, it's—it's a kind of maintenance." Steve looks pained to even use that word, and so the Soldier does his best not let his relief show.

"But my function," he says, a little more calmly, "I'm supposed to complete at least ten missions a day." That's one of his parameters, for days when he is the Soldier, so that he can still be useful. And he already feels useless enough. It would be bad to go against Steve's decisions, but he  _needs_ his ten missions.

"Well, if you do your self-care, you'll have six." 

But self-care is just stuff he'd be doing every day anyway, like taking his medication and following his sleep schedule. "I _can_ do the other five..." he says, feeling the beginnings of panic working their way through him again.

"The schedule is being pushed back, Buck," Steve says. His tone is firm and decisive, and the Soldier feels deeply relieved despite his shame. "We can reassign some of the tasks."

Others will have to make up for his failure. He hangs his head, and Steve strokes his hair. "It's okay. We're all here for you. If you need help, you can ask."

But he _shouldn't_ need help. Those are  _his_ missions. And now he's too incompetent to do even this much and he's already been so bad recently. He  _wants_ to do better. It's terrifying to realize that he just _can't_.

"I know you need your orders," Steve reaches over and squeezes his hand. "So this is what we're going to do. You're going to pick five of those tasks on the list, and I'll stay here and help you. And then we'll call your doctors and see if they can help you feel better."

He wishes he could say he doesn't need all that help.

They tend to the Soldier's plants first, since their health will fail without regular care. Following that, they begin vacuuming and sweeping his floor, and by then the Soldier has to admit that Steve made a good call. While folding his laundry, his concentration begins to fail so badly that it takes him nearly half an hour, with Steve's constant prompting, to get his socks in pairs. The panic of it all and the fury at himself begins to spiral and it's all he can do not to flip his fucking bed over when Steve puts a hand on his shoulder for the fifth time to ask him if he's okay.

He can't flip the bed. He can't lash out he was already so bad when Steve told him he was allowed to be here and he promised,  _promised_ that he'd be better. He's panting, clutching handfuls of his shirt, when Steve says they're going to take a break and call the doctors. He leads the Soldier out of the room with laundry still scattered across the bed. Everything is all _wrong_.

He tries to apologize and Steve says it's okay. The Soldier doesn't understand how this could possibly be okay. 

*

Ordinarily he does not like talking to the doctors.

But he's desperate. He needs  _help._ He needs someone to come  _fix_ this before he completely loses control of himself.

"What's happening to me?" he asks, his voice shaky. He paces around the kitchen, too afraid and ashamed to sit still. 

"From what you're saying," Cornelius says, his voice a little scratchy on speaker, "you're having some pretty intense mood fluctuations. Did something trigger it?"

His voice is as calm and steady as ever, and the Soldier clings to that like a lifeline. "I—I think so, I don't know—"

"Well, sometimes it just happens. You've had times like that before, haven't you?"

"Not that I can remember. This is _why_  I need maintenance! I get erratic without it and if I'm too erratic I'll be dangerous and they might have to—"

"James," Miriam's voice breaks in, "I want you to breathe for me, okay?"

He realizes he's beginning to hyperventilate. He carefully takes a few breaths, counting the way Bruce has always taught him. "Good, James. That's good. When you're feeling okay to continue, do you think you could tell us what you think would happen if you became erratic?"

"Nothing," he mutters. It was stupid. Steve's said so many times he'd never, ever put the Soldier down. It shouldn't make him so moronically panicky and teary-eyed to think of him holding the gun.

"Nothing as in nothing would happen, or nothing as in you don't want to talk about it?"

"The first one," the Soldier says, agitated again, "Both, I don't know!"

"All right. James, I'm pretty sure we've seen you go through things like this before. But maybe not as the Soldier. Can you tell me what you think?"

"But I'm not  _supposed_ to be like this when I'm the Soldier!" His face is hot, his eyes wet. Though the doctors cannot see him, he puts his face in his hands.

"Well, I'm not so sure about that," Miriam says, "After all, you're still a person, and physically you do still have the same brain, and I think a lot of the same advice might still apply. That means you need to recognize your symptoms and your limits. I'd advise you to be patient with yourself when you're in a bad state of mind, because that's when you're going to be the most limited, and no matter who you are right now, that's still okay."

"Everyone always tells me I'm human," he mutters, "I  _know_ I'm human, I  _hate_ being human. I—before. I knew how I worked, and now nothing makes any sense! Before, I was—I was  _perfect!_ "

In the brief silence following the outburst, the Soldier weakens and crumples into a chair. "I wasn't really, though," he mutters, "Everyone just lied to make me do what they wanted. I was stupid."

"I don't think that's true, James," Cornelius says evenly, "We've talked about this before, haven't we?"

"Yes." It would be bad to sigh. It would be _uncooperative_ to sigh. He was being manipulated and he had information taken away from him and that doesn't make him stupid, that's what they want him to say. That's what they  _always_ say. But when he looks back on everything he did without thinking just because someone patted his head and told him he was good, he feels like the stupidest creature on the planet.

"There's a matter of wording, James, and it's a small thing that I think might be very important. You said you know you're human," Miriam says, "But what I said is that you're a  _person._ You're a person in the same way that Cornelius and Steve and I are people. Do you understand that?"

"I—"  _Cognition error._  He struggles to make sense of what she's trying to say. He settles with the best response he knows. "Steve is my master."

The doctors are both silent for a while, and anxiety begins rising up in him again. That wasn't the right answer, but he doesn't know what else to say.

"Well, yes, that's a role he has taken on," Cornelius says, "Do you know why?"

The Soldier does not. His previous master wanted him because he was useful in ways that most agents weren't. But here they don't use him for anything that most other people couldn't do. He has provided them with the locations of many HYDRA bases and safehouses, as well as the names of numerous HYDRA agents. But recently, the most that could be said about him is that he's an exceptionally skilled plant waterer.

He's beginning to hyperventilate again. Both doctors talk to him in calm, soothing voices and remind him to breathe.

"Steve has said multiple times that he cares about you," Miriam says, and yes, he has, although the Soldier doesn't know  _why._ It's not his place to question, though, and asking that question tends to make Steve sad. "He's said you're his friend."

"Barnes. His friend."

"Let me ask you a question. There's no right or wrong answer, but I do want you to think about it for a bit. Do you see yourself as completely separate from James Barnes?"

"I...I don't..." the Soldier feels like crying. This kind of question confuses him. This kind of question hurts his head. He doesn't know _what_ he is. He doesn't _know_.

"That's okay," Miriam says, as though he's given a perfectly acceptable answer, "But you might want to think about that over the next few days."

_"I'm not gonna fight you.You're my friend."_

_(the water rushing below, the bruised and bloodied man sinking out of consciousness beneath him, the_ feeling _in his stomach in his chest in his head _—__ )

_Weapons don't have friends._

_He—_

"—with us, James?"

"Yes." He's trembling, wrapping his arms around himself. Back in those early days in the Tower he used to bring that weighted blanket to therapy sessions; he wishes he had it now. 

"Should we take a break?"

He shakes his head, then remembers they can't see him. "No." Their voices keep him grounded in reality. He doesn't want to be back on the helicarrier, feeling that inner churning like something inside him's about to explode as he punches Steve again and again and again...

He takes a ragged breath.

"Your rules are not meant to condition you into a machine, James. They're in place to support you as a person, because that's what you need. So if they're not helping you on a bad day, it's counterproductive to adhere to the same routine as you would on a day when you're feeling your best. That's—those are parameters of being a person, okay? People are allowed to have bad days, and when they do, they're allowed to have healthy coping mechanisms in place to keep them well. That's what your tasks are, James. They're coping mechanisms, and on a day when they're _not_ helping you to cope, it's an act of self-care to take a break from them. So you can still give yourself an extra self-care star."

Her words actually make sense, which is why the Soldier is so afraid. He can't give in to weakness, cannot lose what little he has left. He clings to the only thing he can understand, which is that he has a new mission.

"Do you need a moment, James? Or I can repeat some of that. I know it's a lot to take in."

"How do I...be a person?"

There's a pause.

"All right, James," Cornelius says after a moment, "I have a task for you. We'll take this in steps, all right? So I want you to make a list of three facts about yourself, and write about how you feel about each of them. I want you to write at least three things you like, and why you like them, as well as at least three things you dislike, and reasons why. If you can do that, you get two additional stars. All right?"

The Soldier may be able to get his ten stars today after all. "Yes."

"One more thing to add to that, James," Miriam says, "When you're done with that list, I want you to do something entirely for you. Something that doesn't seem to serve any functional purpose except to make you feel better. It should be something you do because you like to. Can you think of anything like that?"

 _Long, hot showers. Hugging Steve. Getting my ten_ _stars_. The Soldier hasn't earned any of these. He doesn't deserve them, and if he lets himself have rewards anytime he wants then what will happen to his sense of discipline? His conditioning?

"And it doesn't matter if you feel like you've earned it," Cornelius adds, "This is an important part of your recovery and that's the main objective here."

The Soldier is a bit unnerved by how well they know him. He really is slipping, to be so careless. "Okay."

"All right. And I want you to keep an eye on these moods if they don't improve soon. If you think something's triggering them, or if your medication isn't working for you, you can always give us a call. Will you do that?"

"Yes."

Steve's waiting for him in his room. "Think you're okay to finish the laundry?"

He nods; he feels exhausted and emotionally exposed from the phone conversation, but he's calm enough, at least, to push himself through this. But first...

"I was instructed to..." he holds his arms out, hesitantly. He wasn't specifically told to hug Steve, sure, but it's not like Steve is protesting.

And the Soldier still feels like shit, but Steve's hugs really do make things somewhat better. Steve is safe. Steady. This feels like home, like a place he can always come back to no matter how badly he's screwed up.

He thinks he should put that on his list.

*

**Objective: Being a Person**

**Mission: List 3 defining characteristics, 3 likes, 3 dislikes. Explain each one.**

**I am:**

_1\. Strong._

The Soldier expects to write that he likes his strength. It distinguishes him, makes him fearsome and singularly capable. But instead he finds himself writing  _I fear my strength. I am erratic and I could hurt one of my handlers by mistake. This has happened already and_

He doesn't exactly know what to write there. _This has happened already and_ _it makes me feel_

(The doctors will like that. They're always trying to get him to talk about how things make him feel. But he doesn't know the right word to put after it except  _bad,_ which doesn't seem right, exactly.  _Exceptionally bad._ Close enough.)

_2\. Unstable. This is apparently within the parameters of being a person, but I don't like it. It makes me feel exceptionally bad and also frightened._

(He makes a note to add "being frightened" to his 'dislike' list.)

 _3._ He struggles with this one before adding  _Intelligent. I know a great deal about survival, injuries, strategic planning, and bears. I_

He has to think a bit about what to write after that. Then it hits him.  _I like knowing these things. Some of them are very useful things to know. Since I know them, I could be useful someday._

He suddenly understands with a surge of comprehension. He understands at least a bit of what Miriam was trying to explain.

_But even if this knowledge never serves any function, I still like knowing these things._

**I like:**

_1\. Steve, because he's strong and worthy and because_

The Soldier pauses, trying to find the words to explain exactly what Steve means to him. _he_ _makes me feel worthy too. He is very good in a way that I think I would like to be._

(The Soldier has never really thought about what he would like to be, beyond what pleases his master or handlers. This is probably the kind of topic his doctors will want to talk about, but the idea of having that much control makes him feel a little dizzy. He has to stop thinking and take deep breaths and recite his orders over and over again until he is calm enough to keep writing.)

Hugging Steve. He was going to add that. He tries to find the words to explain what he was thinking earlier, but he can't figure out how to express the innate sense of  _rightness_ he feels when Steve smiles at him. When Steve holds him. When Steve says he will always love the Soldier and never, ever leave him.

There's no way to put that into words, at least not without exposing vulnerability on a very deep level. It takes him a minute to remember that's what he's _supposed_ to do with these doctors; instinct keeps insisting that he should never show anyone exploitable weakness. He could be compromised, or Steve could, and that would be really bad, so he just moves on.

 _2\. Long showers, because they make me calm so I can think more clearly._ They also help him feel cleaner after a nightmare has made his very skin seem sullied with spilled blood and Pierce's touch. Because they erase all evidence of weakness and failure when he wets himself in his sleep. Because hot showers are a luxury that HYDRA never afforded him. He had baths with Pierce, often fraught with tension and anxiety and underlying shame, but never showers. Under the spray, he can remember that he is in the Tower and he's safe now. That his nakedness can be private if he wants it to be, that his body is his own and he has his own space to retreat to when he needs it.  _I like them because I like the warmth._

_3\. My ten stars, because they make me feel less useless. I like having orders and something to do. I like feeling like I'm helping. HYDRA always told me I was helping, but they lied. When I carry out missions now I can see the results and know they're what I want._

(The Soldier is not used to expressing  _want._ It feels wrong somehow, since it is Steve's job to decide what he is supposed to do. But it's a  _person_ thing to want, and his objective is to be a person, so he writes it in.)

**I dislike:**

_1\. Being frightened. It makes me feel weak, stupid, and pathetic._

The Soldier flushes with shame and all at once he decides he hates this list. He remembers being laughed at, suddenly, remembers trembling in the water after—

_2\. Leeches. Because they make me frightened._

_3\. Agent Westfahl. He was a technician for HYDRA._

The Soldier thinks about how to express this dislike and realizes it is mainly because Westfahl caused so much trouble for HYDRA that he may as well have been a SHIELD agent. That could sound like his allegiance is still with HYDRA, so the Soldier vigorously erases number three and writes:

_3\. Feeling useless, because my old handlers would have_

No. He can't write about the threat of getting put down because Steve might see it and cry. 

_3\. Barney the dinosaur, because_

The Soldier cannot find the words to explain this.

_3\. Nightmares, because they also make me frightened and leave lasting effects into the day. They make me remember things that hurt to remember._

_4\. Remembering._

The Soldier is past three, but suddenly he cannot stop. He feels compelled to keep writing.  _I only ever have three kinds of memories. The first kind is of punishments and humiliations that make me feel awful. These kinds of memories can incapacitate me when I'm not expecting them. I don't like being incapacitated by things that are in my head. It makes me feel weak and irrational. The second kind of memory is from the time before HYDRA. Barnes likes these memories, but I don't. They make him happy and sad. They make him miss the time when I did not exist. Everyone misses the time from before I existed and that kind of memory serves as a reminder that I did not come from someplace good and nothing good came from me. Everyone was happier before I was made, including Bucky Barnes._

Thinking about these kinds of things usually makes the Soldier feel terrible, but writing them, scrawling out things he didn't even realize about himself, is like purging out poison. His head feels clear for the first time that day and he cannot stop, his hand moving frantically across the page. 

_I feel unwelcome in my own head because Barnes was better off without me there. The third kind of memory_

He stops short, ink smudged across his hand, shame settling heavily over him, as he remembers that Steve will read this. But he can't help it. He remembers looking at Pierce and thinking he had to be an angel. He remembers craving approval with a fierce and unwavering desperation, and he remembers the sweet pride and bliss on the occasion that someone decided he'd earned it.

He remembers something else. Almost. Briefly. A shadow, really, like a box that he has not allowed himself to open. Pierce forced him to be a child, but only after many years. And so...so...

_The third kind of memory makes me feel very bad. Knowing what HYDRA did, I should not miss any of the HYDRA handlers. And when I do, I know my current handlers would be disappointed._

He stops, thinks, and scribbles over that last sentence. But it did bring some relief just to write it. There are tears on his face, and he has to wipe them away before he goes to show his finished list to Steve for approval.

When he does, he finds himself drawn into another long, tight hug. The Soldier panics for a second because Steve is shaking, but the hands that cup his face are steady, as is the kiss pressed to his forehead.

"That's a great list, Buck. That's perfect." And then he's back to hugging, which the Soldier thinks would be a perfectly okay way to spend the rest of the day.

*

He doesn't complete any more missions, and Steve says that's okay for today, and he also says that the Soldier is, in fact, his friend.

(And he says it's okay if the Soldier doesn't entirely understand what that means just yet, but he looks very sad and the Soldier hurts to have caused it. He assigns himself a new mission, to be pursued when he has the energy for it: figure out how to be Steve's friend.)

They sit on the couch for the rest of the day watching movies. The Soldier feels a little hazy and he can't really pay attention to whatever's happening on the screen. It doesn't seem to matter, though.

Steve does not leave. Steve makes sure he eats and asks him if he feels okay. Steve is his friend and he does these things because he cares about the Soldier.

He's needed to be cared for so much today that he's almost gotten used to it; at first he doesn't even notice when he starts to change mindsets. He finds himself crawling into Daddy's lap, getting a kiss on the top of his head. "Feeling all right?"

Bucky nods. "M'tired, Daddy."

"I bet you are," Daddy says sympathetically, "You had a rough day, huh?"

He's still _having_ a rough day, but he doesn't say it. He doesn't like being hard on Daddy and on everyone else who has to take care of him. He _wants_ to be good, but his mind does really bad things to him sometimes. It used to be even worse. When he first lived in the Tower he sometimes thought JARVIS was HYDRA's voice and that agents were hiding in the walls. He thought things from his nightmares had happened in real life.

Daddy would say that Bucky's still good. Daddy tells him having problems doesn't make him bad and he doesn't have to be sorry for panicking and forgetting and being confused, for the times when it takes him ages just to get himself out of bed. But Bucky still hates it.

"Maybe tomorrow will be better," Daddy offers, kissing his forehead, "Now let's get you ready for bed."

Bucky takes his medicine first. It won't fix things right away, it doesn't work like that, but it'll help him start feeling a little better and it might even mean he gets some good sleep tonight. 

Daddy gives him his teddy bear pajamas, and Bucky knows his bear's feeling really bad when he doesn't even protest. Bucky Bear doesn't like the teddy bear pajamas, even if they're really soft and fuzzy and have a hood with bear ears. 

The bear pajamas make him feel a bit better. In the bathroom, he also picks out a blue pull-up with Daddy's shield printed on the front. Tony made him ones of all the Avengers, but the Captain America ones make him feel safe. Not that he'd ever admit it out loud, but he always feels braver and calmer just knowing he's wearing the shield design on him.

He should make a list of things that help him feel better when he's upset, like the smell of tea in Bruce's corner of the lab or having JARVIS play quiet music, so that he can look at it when he's the Soldier and understand self-care a little better. Maybe he won't write the thing about the pull-ups on that list, though.

When he comes out of the bathroom, Daddy pulls the hood up over his head with a smile and Bucky manages a smile back. 

During his bedtime story, he feels the calmest he's been all day, relief washing over him. Daddy's voice is deep and steady and Bucky clings to that, feeling his mind beginning to settle. For a couple minutes he sucks on the metal of his thumb before he realizes what he's doing and takes it out.

He still doesn't quite feel like he could sleep, so Daddy lays in the bed with him and rubs his back. 

"Today was a really hard day for you, huh?"

"Mmhm," Bucky says around the thumb that's found its way back into his mouth. He pulls it out and curls it into a fist to keep from doing it again. Daddy takes that hand and squeezes gently, stroking the cold metal. Faintly, Bucky feels the warmth wherever his fingers go.

He thinks about how much his last daddy hated his metal hand. How he used to refuse to touch it, how Bucky had to lie still in bed or be careful sitting on his lap to avoid brushing it against him. He never realized, back then, exactly how much that hurt.

He manages to stop himself from spiraling into his bad feelings again. His daddy now loves  _every part_ of him, all of the time.

"But it's okay to have bad days?" he asks, lacing his fingers with Daddy's.

"Yeah. That's right, Buck."

They're quiet for a while, Bucky's head on Daddy's chest, lulled by the soft motions of his breathing. "Daddy?"

"Yeah?"

"Do you ever have bad days?" 

"Sometimes," Daddy strokes Bucky's hair, "Especially when I first came out of the ice. That was—" he stops for a moment. "That was really hard. And after that, for a long time, things weren't as good as they are now. I had a lot of stuff I had to learn about dealing with stuff, you know?"

"Uh-huh," Bucky says sleepily, "And what kinds of things made you feel better?"

"Well, having other people, for one thing. Natasha. And I met Sam. But mostly, Buck," Daddy squeezes him, "getting you back."

Awake now, Bucky turns up to look at him, a warm feeling spreading in his chest. "Me?"

"Yeah." Daddy's eyes have that fierce look he gets sometimes, right before a mission. "I'm so damn glad you're here, Buck. Getting you back was the best thing that could have happened to me. And it has been, every day."

"Every day?" Bucky breathes. He's practically glowing with warmth, even more than when his last daddy used to tell him he was perfect on missions. "Even on bad days?"

"Every day," Daddy says firmly, and Bucky has to hide against his shoulder, overwhelmed and suddenly really shy, but in a good kind of way. "And before that, when I thought you were gone, I missed you so much. Every day."

"Like Stellaluna," Bucky yawns, sleepy again. Today he went through a lot of really strong feelings and that makes him tired. "Like her mama always missing her."

"That's right," Daddy whispers, pulling the blanket tighter around them both, "And this, what we have here, now? When I woke up from the ice and I was all alone, I had no idea what I was going to do. But this is better than anything I could have ever hoped for."

Bucky pulls his bear closer and shuts his eyes. Back when he found out his last daddy died, he almost completely went out of his body because it hurt too much for him to bear. He was so sad and so afraid and so many other feelings he doesn't even have words for, and he felt like life would never be okay again.

But this. Living here has been better than he could have hoped for, too. Better than anything he even knew existed.

And maybe one day, the Soldier will be able to feel like that too. Because Bucky was so scared when he first came here. Scared and having bad days almost every day, not knowing that it was okay, not knowing what was going to happen to him. And now he feels so much better. And his _life_ is so much better. And the Soldier's life will probably be better too, once he's had more time to get used to it.

He pulls Bucky Bear closer and pats him on his head, as if to make that a promise. "Love you, Daddy," he says through another yawn, and gives in to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Recent Tumblr discussions of Bucky and Steve both struggling with depression led me to write this thing that I pushed to the back of my mind a while ago. I had this idea because Little Bucky and Adult Bucky have both had some major fluctuations in their mental health, and even with medication to take the edge off, it wouldn't be completely fixed. They both have some coping methods in place, but the Soldier hasn't had the chance to figure that stuff out.
> 
> So I wanted to explore what would happen if the Soldier was really wrestling with some acute mental health issues. If he was caught in a depressive episode or something else, or if he got triggered, and it prevented him from being what he sees as 'fully functional'. I wanted to write him trying to push himself through it to perform at full capacity, and freaking out when he just can't do it or when that makes him feel worse. That's also exacerbated by the fact that the Soldier may not have explored coping mechanisms to manage his mental health problems in the same way that Bucky and the kid have.
> 
> And then there's Steve. Damn, I wish I'd saved some of those posts so I could link them here, because there's some pretty good discussion about Steve going around. How he's struggled to cope with his own memories and with waking up to find the entire world has changed. (And that he's not dead, because he definitely meant to die in TFA when he took that plane down.) There was also a lot of interesting discourse about his coping mechanisms, healthy and unhealthy, in TWS. From the moment he wakes up, he's under so much pressure to perform as the infallible Captain America, with hardly anyone seeing that he's still Steve Rogers and still struggling with some pretty heavy stuff. And now he's doing a lot better, having Bucky and a support network of friends, and (at least in APSHDS) being in therapy. Still, Steve has a lot of trauma and he's still coping with a lot of issues, and he's under a lot of pressure to sustain a certain image of himself. So I figured he's be pretty understanding if the Soldier was dealing with the same kind of thing. Here, he's trying to teach the Soldier what he finds healthiest when he's struggling. That is, he still tries to keep himself moving, but places less demand on himself. (Providing structure and routine to rely on, which is especially essential for the Soldier's well-being, but allowing leeway for human fallibility when necessary.) And the Soldier having a tenuous grasp on the concept of his personhood really complicates his ability to understand that.
> 
> Also I just really love Steve going into Caring Parent Mode regardless of what mindset Bucky's in.
> 
> (In which Sara likes to ramble and apparently cannot be concise about anything ever.)
> 
> Some of the talk for Bucky's self-care was inspired by [this chapter](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5094785/chapters/13177834) of [a truly wonderful fic](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5094785/chapters/11716436) by [spitandvinegar](http://archiveofourown.org/users/spitandvinegar/pseuds/spitandvinegar).


	16. Silky Smooth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Pierce gets off on giving Snowflake a wax.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, as an author, you look back at a work and ask yourself "Why did I feel the need to write this?"
> 
> And the answer is I have no idea.
> 
> Also. Warning for sexual abuse in this chapter.

Before they started playing this game, Daddy always said he was beautiful.

Then Daddy stopped smiling and started frowning a lot more. His mouth got flat and hard, his eyes grew cold, and they were always, somehow, vaguely disappointed. He could barely stand it.

And he doesn't understand  _why._ All he has to go on is that Daddy said not to touch him with the metal arm, it's cold and rigid and everything little boys are not. But he didn't hate the arm before, and anyway, that arm lets him do missions really good when he's the asset. He'd take the whole thing  _off_ if Daddy wanted, but then he might look ugly and torn and imperfect.

He wants Daddy to tell him he's perfect again.

And so when Daddy gives an _explanation_ for his next cold-eyed slump into dissatisfaction, he eagerly latches onto it. There's thick hair growing in on his chest; little boys do not have hair all over them. He's mortified and ashamed at first, sickened by his body that so displeases his Daddy. But there's a fix for this. When he needs procedures done, the techs shave him all the time. He's probably been hairless before; maybe that's why Daddy's not used to hair now.

His Daddy brightens when he suggests getting rid of the hair, and warmth flutters in his chest. He allows himself to be led to the bathroom and seated on the edge of the bathtub.

He could get his own clothes off, but Daddy insists on helping. "Arms up," he says lightly, teasingly, and his shirt is discarded on the floor. Without warning he is being tickled, flailing and struggling not to fall into the tub. Every so often Daddy's hands skitter a bit lower until a not-altogether-unpleasant feeling swells in his tummy. He squirms, and Daddy gives him a knowing sort of look. Without really being sure why, he feels self-conscious, some vague but ominous sort of discomfort bubbling up inside him. He looks down at the floor.

The tickling stops, and Daddy pats him on the head. He wants to lean into Daddy's hand, craves the touch, but he isn't sure if he's allowed to want it, to ask for more. Affectionate touch is rare nowadays, though, and he relishes even the lingering ghost of the feeling.

A patch of weird pink gel is painted onto his chest with a stick. Daddy has to use a lot of gel; the hair is thick there. Then a strip of cloth is pressed to the area and, without warning,  _ripped_ away.

He cries out. He doesn't mean to, and shame follows immediately, but it  _hurts,_ stinging long after the fabric has torn from his skin. His breath catches, and a tear falls down his cheek.

Daddy takes hold of his chin and tilts his face up, looking upset again, and he remembers what he has been told about crying. "Sorry, Daddy," he whispers, suppressing the hitch in his voice, "I'll be good, I promise."

And he is, even though it's harder than he expected. He's withstood far more pain without a sound as the asset, but he is not the asset now and he's little and scared and it  _hurts._ He fixes his gaze on the bare patch of skin, red and burning, and resolves to hold back his tears.

The next patch does not hurt any less, but by the third or forth time he has grown accustomed to the pain. Strip by strip the thick swirls of hair vanish, replaced by the smooth bareness of skin he has hoped to achieve. He will be what his Daddy wants him to be. He'll be  _perfect,_ and that will be worth this pain.

"This takes too long," Daddy comments, "You've got a lot of hair. This won't work; we can't do this every time we play."

He hangs his head; his idea has failed. "Sorry, Daddy."

Daddy strokes his hair, and he dares to look up again. "That's all right. It'll work for now." Unexpectedly, another strip is yanked from his body, and he grits his teeth to hold back a cry of surprise. "I'll just have to see if the techs can think of a way to make it permanent. Someone should've thought of that already, you need so many surgeries..."

The process continues without comment. He grips the edge of the tub with both hands until he realizes the left is starting to leave finger indentations. Guiltily, he tries to rub them away, hoping Daddy doesn't see, and when he looks back up the tent of Daddy's pants hovers in front of his face. 

That means he's doing something right, though he doesn't know what. That means he's making his daddy happy. That also means that sometime soon there'll have to be a thank-you given for the care he has received, but right now he's not dreading that like he usually does. It'll hurt less than this, he knows that much.

When the last of his hair has been torn away, he looks down at the smoothness of his body, then up at Daddy, silently inviting him to touch. To give his approval. But Daddy's looking down; he follows the gaze to the patch of hair remaining around his penis and scrotum.

With a thrill of horror he remembers that pubic hair is not supposed to be acquired until adolescence. His body locks up as he braces himself, but Daddy shakes his head with a little smile and he goes limp in relief.

He doesn't get to relax for long. The anticipated thank-you immediately follows, with Daddy grabbing at him and pulling him in and he has to fight back sounds of pain as his hands grip at still-raw skin. After, when he has been released, he falls back into the bathtub like he's been trying not to do. But that makes Daddy  _laugh,_ and he still feels foolish and nervous but when was the last time he got Daddy to  _laugh?_

"Come here, silly boy," Daddy smiles, extending a hand, and he makes sure to reach up and take it with his right. 

And Daddy's touching him all over, feeling the smoothness of him, turning him around so that he can be held firmly from behind, arms pinned to his sides. The uncomfortable feeling from earlier starts to come back as Daddy's hands slide lower, wrapping around his penis. There's a jolt in him that tells him something's not quite right about this, but saying no is like crying, it's bad and not allowed, and then the sensation is mounting and he can't think, breathing with the feeling and allowing himself to be pressed into Daddy and shuddering, rocking with it, crying out. Hot spurts spray down his legs and there's something hard poking against his bottom and that means there's another thank-you to be given.

This one, at least, he doesn't have to perform with his mouth. Daddy teaches him to grind his hips and rub his bare butt in rhythmic motions, guided by gentle hands showing him where to go and when. That's not so bad, and it doesn't hurt, although when all is done there is come and spit all over him. Daddy doesn't seem to mind, and though he usually he says good boys have to clean up their messes, today he carefully wipes his boy clean, finding any and every reason to touch the smooth softness of the skin.

After, there are the games he is still growing used to, bathtime and pajamas and bedtime stories and one last thank-you to say good night. He falls asleep weary from all those games but content, too, because Daddy has been pleased with him all afternoon and all evening, because Daddy slips his hands up under the pajama shirt and strokes his body up and down until he is too wiggly and keyed-up, almost, to even fall asleep, because as they finally do begin to drift off Daddy whispers, "You've been perfect, my little snowflake."

And  _that_ makes today worth it. That makes anything worth it. He's his daddy's little snowflake and he's beautiful again and he is perfect, and if Daddy needs him to play these games to love him then he will do that, always and forever, so Daddy will never stop loving him again.

"Night, Daddy," he whispers, snuggling close and shutting his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So a long time ago, someone pointed out that it's rather...odd that TWS shows the Soldier with a completely smooth chest when Bucky had chest hair in TFA.
> 
> I happened to think of that today, for no apparent reason, and then this happened.
> 
> Also, where did the waxing kit come from and why did Pierce have it? *shrugs* don't ask me.
> 
> (When his wife asks where it went of course he'll help her search for it, wondering aloud where it could have gone when she swears she just bought it a couple days ago.)
> 
> And. Also. Before the hairlessness was made permanent, I love to imagine the poor sucker whose job it is to shave the Winter Soldier for surgeries. I'm betting they make Westfahl do it.


	17. Forever and Always

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"If I was really, really bad..." he starts nervously, "...would you get rid of me? If you didn't...didn't want me anymore, would you ever just...leave me somewhere?" He tries to keep the tears and the worry out of his voice. He's already starting to sound like he's whining, but he can't help it. He'd be so lonely. He wouldn't know what to_ do.
> 
> _"No, Snowflake," Daddy says, "I'd never leave you."_

Punishment isn't half as bad when Daddy doesn't leave him alone after.

He can take the hitting and the yelling. It hurts and it's scary and he feels awful when he makes Daddy mad, but he can take that. He can take being made to kneel in the corner on the hard floor. And by tomorrow all his bruises will be gone anyway. 

What makes him okay is that Daddy stays in the room with him. It's only because they're in the kitchen and Daddy needs to wash the dishes from dinner, but still, he can hear him moving around and he's _here_ and even though he's mad right now it's still really comforting.

He doesn't say that. He's been bad; he's not supposed to be taking comfort from anything. He's supposed to be thinking about what he did and why he's being punished. He's supposed to think about how he's made Daddy sad. He's facing the wall, but he can still picture the disappointment etched into Daddy's face, the tired way he moves when he's not happy.

Only just then Daddy says, "You know I don't enjoy doing this, right?"

"Yes, Daddy," he answers dutifully.

"I have to do it. Because little boys who make their daddies sad need to be punished. And misbehavior needs to be corrected, or it will only get worse. So this is for your own good, and for mine as well. It's what's best for both of us. You do understand that, don't you?"

"Yes, Daddy," he whispers, awash in shame. After he's already made Daddy unhappy, it just makes him more sad to have to punish him. When he gets to get up, he'll have to do something really good to make up for it. All he wants is to see Daddy smile again. "I won't be bad anymore, not ever. I promise."

"I hope you keep that promise," Daddy says, wiping a plate dry. His voice isn't flat or mad anymore, but there's no laugh in it like there usually is. He'd try to think of something to make Daddy happy, but he isn't allowed to talk when he's been put in the corner, not unless Daddy asks him a question.

Then a horrible, bad, scary thought comes into his head and makes him feel all cold. His chest is tight and it's hard to stay still. He should just keep quiet, but the thought is like when he sometimes gets a horrible nightmare and he needs help convincing himself that it's not really true.

"Daddy?" he dares to ask.

"Yes?"

"If I was really, really bad..." he starts nervously, "...would you get rid of me? If you didn't...didn't want me anymore, would you ever just...leave me somewhere?" He tries to keep the tears and the worry out of his voice. He's already starting to sound like he's whining, but he can't help it. He'd be so lonely. He wouldn't know what to _do_.

"No, Snowflake," Daddy says, "I'd never leave you."

Relief washes through him, and he promises himself that he'll always be good from now on. He'll be _so_ good. 

"I couldn't leave you," Daddy says, his voice coming closer. "Anyone who's been in HYDRA knows too much, you know that. And I know you. If HYDRA ever left you somewhere, you might be a liability. So I couldn't leave you alive." 

Then Daddy's standing beside him. His breath is frozen on his lips, but he makes himself look up, already knowing that Daddy will want him to. Daddy's face is so serious, more serious than he's ever looked while they're playing. "I'd be the one to put you down. I'd make sure it would be me, so that I'd be with you at the end. But I will never do that, will I? Because you wouldn't ever be that bad. You wouldn't make me do that, would you, Snowflake?"

"No, Daddy. I never would," he says fervently, wondering why he feels so upset and crumbling inside. It's not like he hasn't been the Soldier for more years than he can count to; it's not like he doesn't know how HYDRA works. But the thought of Daddy standing there, sad-eyed and with the gun in his hand—

"That's right," Daddy says, softer, and he's pulled back to reality. "That's my good boy. I knew I could count on you."

"But Daddy, there's one thing—" he quickly stops himself at  _wrong._ He'd never, ever say Daddy is wrong about anything. But it's important. He needs Daddy to _know_. Daddies only want to feel like they're loved and appreciated after everything they do for their little boys, and he's been so awful about that today. He has to make it better. 

"Yes?"

"I _wouldn't_ survive without you." He looks up at Daddy, all the need and love filling up in him at once and spilling over. It's all he can do not to grab onto Daddy's legs and cry. "I'd be all alone. I wouldn't—I couldn't live without you, Daddy. I _couldn't_."

"You wouldn't live without _HYDRA_. Not long-term," Daddy corrects him, but there's finally the familiar hint of a smile on his face, letting his boy know he's said the right thing.

"Yeah, but you, too. I need my Daddy," he says in a breathless rush, "And I'm really, really sorry I was bad. I won't do it again, I _promise_."

"I believe you, sweetheart. Come on, let's get you up." 

He takes the hand extended to him, and Daddy pulls him up off the floor, innate relief flowing through him at the touch and the understanding that he's being given the chance to be good again. And Daddy will never put him down, he wouldn't, because he's going to be the best little boy in the world from now on and they'll never ever stop loving each other and he'll never make Daddy have to do that, not ever. He _wouldn't_. He  _wouldn't..._

He's still clinging extra tight to Daddy's hand as he allows himself to be led down the hall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Someone I should have known better than to trust trusted treated me like shit today. I thought about it too much and then this happened. Sorry.


	18. The Sad Little Bunny

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _At first Bucky Bear doesn't want Bucky anywhere near the rabbit._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh look, it was going to be cute and I got carried away with the thing.

At first Bucky Bear doesn't want Bucky anywhere near the rabbit. 

Bucky doesn't get a whole lot of packages in the mail. Letters, yes, screened by JARVIS and then by Steve before Bucky is allowed to read them. But whenever he gets packages, it's usually from someone angry. Someone trying to hurt him. JARVIS won't say exactly what he's found in most of these packages, but the idea makes Bucky Bear's stuffing feel all twisty and hot.

Bucky Bear does not like these people. Bucky Bear wants to rip them apart to keep them from ever coming near Bucky because if they did then Bucky would probably agree with all the horrible things they say about him. He might even  _cry._ And then he'd lay in bed with Bucky Bear for days after, refusing to move so that neither of them could do anything useful and Bucky Bear's stuffing would feel so knotted-up from nerves.

The Captain was hesitant to give Bucky the letter. "I'm not sure if you want to read this, Buck," he'd said carefully, pointing to the signature at the bottom.  _Abby Pierce,_ it read.

Disjointed images formed in the stuffing in Bucky Bear's head; a grainy home-video of a birthday party, a small blue swimsuit hanging dusty and unused in a bathroom, the cramped space under the kitchen counter, hiding. Bucky Bear got a bad feeling.

Bucky ignored him, but his hand trembled slightly as he took the letter. Bucky Bear read over his shoulder, aware of the Captain's concerned gaze. Neither he nor Bucky Bear wanted Bucky to read this. They'd been having such a good day. Bucky got out of bed on time, completed all of his assigned tasks, read stories with Bruce, and then Tasha came to play and all the bears went on missions. Bucky Bear performed beautifully and was a very good bear. 

After that, Bucky was big again and was sitting in his kitchen with the Captain, reading through some of his incoming letters of support. Sometimes they cause him great emotional conflict, but today they'd brought him peace.

All that would be ruined if this letter hurt Bucky. He'd go curl up in the corner of his room and cry. He'd struggle to eat and he wouldn't want to play, and he'd spend hours on the Internet trying to get around JARVIS's safe-search and find stuff about himself until the Captain came to make him stop.

But the letter wasn't an attack. It wasn't about Bucky being the reason Ms. Pierce no longer had a father, which was what he'd been most scared of. It was written in round but uneven handwriting, as though the composer normally wrote very neatly, but was possibly highly emotional or somewhat intoxicated at the time of writing. The paper itself was warped in places with tears.

_I'm sorry. I've tried to write this letter so many times, and for so long, and I kept throwing the paper away because I didn't know how to start. And maybe I shouldn't write to you at all. Maybe you don't want to hear from me. Maybe you never will, but I felt like I had to at least tell you that I'm sorry._

_I can't stop thinking about how many times I was in that house without knowing about that secret room. I keep thinking there has to be some sign I missed or some way I could have helped. I keep thinking there might have been times when we were in the same house and he was hurting you and I didn't do anything to stop it. I can't believe he would do this. I keep accidentally remembering childhood memories with him and then I remember what he really was and it's like getting punched in the stomach. It's like having everything taken away from me. Sometimes it's like having the air in my lungs pulled away. How long was he lying to me? Was he capable of this all along? I just can't believe I never knew. I never doubted he was trying to make the world a better place. And I would never have thought he would do anything like what he did to you. My entire life, I was so wrong about my own father. I guess I just wanted to offer to talk things out with you, because he hurt you too. And you probably don't want to talk about any of that stuff with me of all people, but if you do, you are always welcome to write me back._

_I know I can never make any of it up to you. I don't know what you could even want from me, but if there's anything you can think of, if it's within my ability then I will give it to you. You deserved so much better than what my father did and I never would have wanted to believe he was a monster but I guess I would have found out about HYDRA one way or another. I just feel like something has been pulled out from under me, like my entire childhood was a lie and I've got nothing left to hold onto. And I can't even imagine how it must feel for you._

_I guess that's really why I'm writing this. I can talk to my friends about the HYDRA thing. They can understand how shocked I was about that. We all thought he was such a good man. They get it. But I could never in a million years talk about how I felt when I first found the key to that room. And I'm sorry I'm making you read this now, I guess it's selfish of me to send this but I really needed to feel like there's someone else out there who gets what this has been like. Which is stupid, I know. I had a perfect childhood and I haven't been through a fraction of what you have. That's not what I'm trying to say. I don't really know what I'm trying to say, I guess. I understand if you're angry. Or if you don't want to write back at all. I just felt like I had to send this._

_I don't really have anything else to say and I guess I've rambled at you long enough. I could go on and on about my childhood and how I can't believe this and how I would have helped if I could, but you probably don't want to read that. So I'm just going to explain why I'm giving this to you now. He was my favorite toy when I was little and I carried him everywhere. I've never told anyone this, but I cried when I got to college and realized I'd forgotten him at home. I never found him again, and I guess now I know why._

_I can't look at him now without thinking of everything that must have happened with him. I know you probably don't want to think about it either, and I'm not sure you want him, but I can't stand to think of him laying alone on the floor forever in that locked room._

_Again, if there's anything you want from me, just let me know and I'll do anything I can. I'm so sorry for everything._

_Sincerely,_

_Abby Pierce._

Bucky moves for the package with great trepidation, like he already knows what's in there. When he withdraws his hand from the packaging, he's clutching a floppy blue rabbit with worn fur and glassy plastic eyes.

Bucky Bear feels just the way the Captain's face looks. 

"Buck...is that?..."

Bucky just stares at the rabbit, and Bucky Bear wants to shout at him to drop it. To get away from it. Bucky Bear is so nervous and jittery and he's not sure why. All he knows is that he does not like this bunny. 

The Captain must agree, because he tries to reach for it, only for Bucky to clutch it desperately against his chest.

"You, uh...want to keep it?" Steve asks in a hoarse sort of way.

"Sorry, Daddy," Bucky whispers, "I'm really sorry, I just..." he rubs his face against the rabbit's head.

"No, no, you're allowed to want whatever you want. It's okay," the Captain says, but from the look on his face and the watery gleam in his eyes that Bucky, fixated on the bunny, doesn't see, it isn't okay at all.

Watching Bucky hug and nuzzle the bunny the way he usually does for  _him,_ Bucky Bear agrees.

*

 _Bucky,_ Bucky Bear says,  _Bucky._

But Bucky doesn't hear. He didn't understand why Bucky Bear refused to play with the bunny, or why all the other Bearvengers didn't really want to, either. So now he's hopping the bunny around and not hearing anything Bucky Bear tries to say to him. Bucky Bear feels ready to crumple like there's not enough stuffing to hold him up. He doesn't understand why Bucky would rather play with the bunny. That hopping game has no missions and rewards, no saving the world or friendships or everyone yelling at Iron Bear. It's  _pointless._

The bunny must agree, because he's floppy and limp. He doesn't, in Bucky Bear's opinion, seem too enthusiastic about the hopping. Eventually, with a deep sigh, Bucky gives up playing that and starts another game.

This one is about a bad bunny. A bad bunny who is not allowed to be held and can never sleep in the bed with his little boy. A bunny that always has to go on the floor, and never gets any clovers. "Bad little boys don't deserve any treats," Bucky says, practically snarling, "Bad little boys need to be  _punished._ "

Bucky Bear tries to warn Bucky that the game is getting out of hand, but Bucky is getting more and more caught up in angrily punishing the bunny and cannot seem to hear him. "You always make me do this!" he's yelling, "Why do you make me do this? Why can't you just be good? Why do you _do_ this?"

Then Bucky is crying, crying uncontrollably and flinging the bunny across the room. He sits on the floor with his arms around his legs, his head down on his knees, and he weeps.

 _Now look what you did,_ Bucky Bear mutters. He  _knew_ this would happen, knew that useless childish bunny with its wide stupid eyes would cause trouble for Bucky. That's the bunny who let Bucky plead and beg for Pierce, who taught him to accept each new humiliation and each new torture, a bunny whose stuffing is probably all rotten. Of course he made Bucky think of bad things. Of course he's made Bucky cry.

But. But Bucky Bear didn't always know how to be good. Bucky Bear's made the _Captain_ cry.

Bucky Bear remembers just how awful that felt, like he could never be good again. He remembers how he just wanted to prove himself, and when he failed he only wanted to lay down forever and give up. To hide.

Bucky Bear eyes the bunny, slumped upside-down against the wall with his ratty, chewed ears. His own sensitive ears tingle; who has done this to him?

Maybe the bunny isn't so bad after all. Maybe he just needs help.

Bucky Bear is good at helping. Or at least he tries to be.

 _Come here,_ he tries. The bunny just stares at him with those glassy eyes.

 _I won't hurt you,_ he says,  _I just want to help._

 _I don't deserve help,_ the bunny whispers weakly,  _I don't deserve anything at all._

Bucky Bear says he's sure that's not true. Carefully, because bears are really strong and he doesn't want to hurt the bunny any more,  he turns him rightside-up and wraps an arm around him, holding him up. He also makes sure to find out his name. Names are important, and now Bunny has one.

The first thing they do is a medical exam. Bucky Bear promises that he knows it is unpleasant and frightening, but it's necessary for Bunny to get better. Bunny doesn't care whether or not he gets better, and he's too lethargic to be very frightened. He lies floppy and limp as Bucky Bear diagnoses lack of stuffing, poor fur fluffiness, and extreme deprivation of hugs. After carefully bandaging his ears, Bucky Bear provides a quick emergency hug. It'll have to do for now; Bunny needs food and rest. He's so tired.

Gently, Bucky Bear eases a pull-up onto Bunny. He doesn't know for sure if the rabbit has accidents or not, but he wants to make sure Bunny is as safe and comfortable as possible since he's already feeling so bad.

The next step would be to get the Captain in to provide hugs and nose kisses. But the Captain does not like Bunny. The Captain really, really does not like Bunny. Bucky Bear decides not to bring that up. 

He lies on the bed next to Bunny, with a bottle of honey beside them. Bunny keeps whispering that he's not hungry, Bucky Bear knows Bunny must eat at least a little in order to feel better. _It's all right_ , he says softly, trying out the voice the Captain uses when Bucky needs to eat but feels too scared, _just have a little for right now. You can take it slow._

Bunny just wants to rest. He's so tired and worn-out from feeling so afraid for so long. He wants everything to be dark and quiet, and to never have to get up again. But Bucky Bear isn't going to have any of that. With a bit of gentle prodding, Bunny eats a few drops of honey.

Bucky Bear tucks a blanket tight around them both, folding the edge over Bunny's eyes. Bunny snuggles up against him, sucking on his paw, and Bucky Bear has to admit it gives him a fuzzy feeling in his stuffing. Bunny is soft, like the washcloths he'll sometimes cuddle up to when no one is looking. He nuzzles Bunny, careful of his bandaged ears.

As Bunny starts to drift off to sleep, Bucky Bear tucks the rabbit's head under his chin and squeezes him very, very tightly, promising him that he may feel hopeless and unwanted right now, but he shouldn't give up. It might take a long time, but better days will come.

And Bucky Bear will watch over him until they do.

*

_Dear Abby,_

_I'm sorry it took me so long to respond to your letter. I needed some time to think through everything you said. Sometimes these things are hard for me to think about, but that doesn't mean they're not important for you to say._ _You're not selfish for needing someone to talk to. What you went through is valid, so you don't have to feel like it's not. A friend of mine is always talking about the danger of comparing traumas and invalidating the experiences of other people. If this hurt you, it counts, and you don't have to compare your struggles to mine. I can only imagine how much you must have been hurt by everything that happened after Insight crashed._

_To be honest, I'd like to help you, but I'm no therapist. I do know a few great ones and maybe I can get them to recommend someone who can help you deal with what you're feeling. You seem to have a lot of self-blame, but none of this is your fault. It's not mine, either, but it's still hard for me to say that and believe it. I hope you find the help and the peace you're looking for._

_If you'd like to write to me again, you are welcome to, but there are things I cannot talk about, or hear about, because they are still too much for me to deal with. If it helps you to write about these things, then you should write them, but I cannot read them. However, your letter was comforting in an odd way. You might not believe that, but it really helps to know that someone else out there understands what it's like to have looked up to him so much. Someone else understands what it's like to live with that now. So I appreciate you reaching out to me, but I cannot accept your apology because I do not blame you for anything that happened in the first place. You shouldn't blame yourself either. I wish you the best._

_Sincerely,_

_Bucky._

_P.S. I'll take good care of your bunny for you._


	19. In Which Absolutely Nothing Goes Wrong

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A brief chapter in which nothing heartbreaking happens.

Steve's become conditioned to rouse at the slightest hint of Bucky's distress. So when he jolts awake in the middle of the night, it takes him a minute to identify the cause. There was a noise; Bucky definitely made a noise.

But not, Steve realizes with amusement, a noise of pain or terror. No, Bucky's _snoring_.

Steve takes a moment to watch him. He's seen Bucky wake up trembling, bolting out of bed, screaming even, heard him sob and whimper and moan in his sleep, caught in the grip of each relived horror and agony he can still remember. But now his face is so deeply relaxed, so peaceful as he exhales. Then he makes another noise that sounds a bit like a chainsaw starting up, and Steve stifles a laugh.  _You're gonna snore yourself awake, you dope,_ he thinks fondly.

For a minute he just watches Bucky, relaxed in deep, restful contentment with his fingers curling and uncurling around Bucky Bear's foot. He tries to freeze the image in his mind, something to hold in his memory. Maybe he can draw it, though he's not sure he can capture this feeling just right.

"I love you so much, you know that?" he murmurs, smoothing Bucky's hair off his forehead, "Even if it was easier to sleep under fire."

Bucky snores raggedly again, jerking his bear closer to his chest. "Love you," Steve says again, before sliding closer to Bucky and resting his head once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because sometimes you just need the cute.


	20. If Only, If Only

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Buck," Steve says gently, "Come on. It's me. You don't have to pretend."_
> 
> _Bucky's shaking. Steve puts a hand on his shoulder, trying to ground him, sensing the barriers between them falling away. It's them. It's just them, like it's always been._

_"I'm invisible. I'm turning into you," Bucky mutters, "It's—it's like a horrible dream."_

_Steve hesitates, his breath catching in his chest. He and Bucky aren't above a bit of ribbing here and there, each giving as good as they get. That was something else, though. That was over the line and the Bucky he knows would never say it. They've always known each others' touchy spots, what they can poke at and what to leave alone. It's all behind him now, of course, his body the daydream of recruiters and girls alike. Not that he's enjoyed the groping, the strangers who try to press up close, the unforgiving lens of the spotlight that hasn't left him since he first stepped up onstage. But up till now he thought he'd live out his tired, sick life for as long as it lasted. It was hard not to feel hopeless under the brunt of the ridicule and the disdain. He had a hard time, sometimes, telling himself that they were wrong._

_Part of him, a part that never let go of the bitterness simmering in him despite his efforts to be undeterred, to keep his head high and his spirits strong._ Now you know how I always felt. When you set us up on double dates with girls who wouldn't have wanted me over a giant garden slug. Whenever you—

_He could brush it off. He could make an angry comment in return. But there's an almost desperate sort of light in Bucky's eyes. There's his unkempt attire and his hair barely combed and the way he's been holding himself all night, like he can hardly find the will to stay upright._

_"C'mon," Steve says, taking Bucky's arm. He's not sure if the authoritative tone comes from his newfound command or from years of bossing Bucky around. He's not sure of anything much these days; something's changed between them and it's hard to put his finger on it. Either way, Bucky doesn't put up much a protest as Steve leads him out the door._

_"Steve, I'm sorry," he mutters, not looking very sorry. Not looking much of anything at all. His eyes betray a deep sort of hurt, something like shame._

_"I'm not angry, Bucky. But that wasn't you. You're not acting like yourself." Steve waits for a retort. Something about how Steve can get on the restraining table in the lab for days on end, get shot up with God-knows-what, see if he comes out feeling fine and dandy. But Bucky says nothing, only looks away. Steve waits for him to turn back and look at him before speaking again. It takes a while before Bucky finally does._

_"Are you all right, Buck?"_

_"Peachy," Bucky says, trying to play it off. His voice betrays the lie, tight and with an almost hysterical edge. "Never better. That juice they were pumping into me, does wonders for th—"_

_"No, really. You've been through hell these past few weeks. I want to know if you're doing all right."_

_Bucky must be really fucked up, because that's all it takes to break through his self-control. His face twitches a bit. "Don't—Steve, don't—" but he's already shaking his head, bringing his hand to wipe at his eyes._

_"Buck," Steve says gently, "Come on. It's me. You don't have to pretend."_

_Bucky's shaking. Steve puts a hand on his shoulder, trying to ground him, sensing the barriers between them falling away. It's them. It's just them, like it's always been, and Bucky's looking at him desperately like he's begging for absolution. Steve doesn't know why he didn't see it sooner. Nightmares had been a common thing among the rescued prisoners, but it's more than that with Buck. His head had been really messed up when Steve had found him on that table, and even now he hasn't managed to shake it. The fact that he's even willing to keep pushing on, to keep following Steve—_

_Concern pricks at him. He needs to talk to Bucky about this, can't just drag him back into battle when he's as fucked up as he is. Bucky would never come out and say it, but he's barely keeping himself together._

_Now's not the time, though. Looking into Bucky's helpless, pleading eyes, Steve wants to just—maybe not kiss him, not now and not like this. But hold him. Let him break down. Give him a chance to get his head on straight before he has to decide if he wants to throw himself back into battle. But Bucky won't want to be held just now, won't want to cry and confess all his weaknesses on the front step of the bar. He's still got some pride left._

_"We'll talk later, all right?" Steve says, as softly as Bucky used to talk back when he was really, really sick. Those times when he was so tired and even sunlight hurt. When he needed help getting a spoon to his mouth or walking down the hall to take a piss._

_Bucky doesn't protest. Doesn't insist that he's fine, that he doesn't need to be babied, thank you very much, Mom, which confirms exactly what kind of shape he's in._

_Steve puts an arm around his shoulder and gives him a brief squeeze, and just for a moment, Bucky lets himself be comforted, drawing in shuddering breaths until—_

"Earth to Steve?" Sam's saying gently. Steve blinks at the rolling credits. He missed the end of the movie for—what, exactly? No matter how much he wishes he could change that one moment in time, he can't go back. He's gone over this in his head again and again, thinking about what he should have said, and to what avail?

He could make excuses. He's not proud of it, but he has tried. He hadn't really had a chance to get his legs under him, to grab a few drinks at a bar and just talk to people, to enjoy a night out as Steve Rogers and not as Captain America. And the Commandos were forming, and there was the next mission to organize, even on a night of celebration he was busy. So he brushed off what Bucky said, tried not to let it get to him too much, and made a note to check up on him later. Except there had never been a good moment to bring it up. He'd always _meant_ to ask. To let Bucky know that he still cared, that they were still best friends and that would never change, that Bucky didn't have to be perfect and put-together. Not all the time. Not with Steve.

Bucky fell, and that conversation never happened. Steve never got a chance. Never told Bucky that he understood, that it was okay. Never offered him the out he wouldn't have taken anyway, or at least extended a hand to help him when he was struggling to get by. Never told Bucky that he understood, that it was okay.

"You with us?" Sam prompts him in the present day, and Steve gives a little nod. He feels, rather than sees, Bucky shifting on the couch next to him, easing into his lap.

"Daddy?" he whispers, and Steve almost breaks down right there. 

"I'm all right," he murmurs, "Everything's okay." He puts his arms around Bucky and holds him tight like he'll never let go again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sure exactly when this takes place, but it's somewhat prior to Bucky and Steve's discussion in [Up Too Late](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6421891). Maybe even before Steve starts seeing a therapist.


	21. Dating 101

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Bucky's laughing a bit, feeling like maybe it's possible for him to sometimes have a normal life._
> 
> _Of course, that's the cue for him to have a panic attack._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for sexual assault mentions in both the chapter and the end notes.

Bucky never would have thought he'd be able to sleep away from home without Daddy there. Not without a breakdown or two. He still gets pretty nervous when he comes over to Crystal's apartment for sleepovers. But he was okay last night, and he didn't even make any two A.M. phone calls to the Tower this time. Crystal, Bucky, and Mayling make pancakes for breakfast—or rather, Bucky makes pancakes like the Commander taught him while Crystal and Mayling throw chocolate chips at each other from across the counter.

After all this time, Bucky's still in awe that some kids are loud and vehement and messy without getting scared of being punished. Without worrying that everyone will stop loving them if they're just bad enough. He considers joining in on the chocolate chip war, but he's not quite brave enough to start throwing food like that. He could maybe do it if Tasha was here, and they could use their secret signs so she'd know if things were making him too nervous. But Tasha didn't come, since she had a mission, so Bucky just pours batter and flips pancakes while they tease and bicker and pelt each other with chocolate.

Not that he's not having fun. He's enjoyed just watching the easy way Crystal and Mayling interact, like they're not scared of messing everything up. He's even laughing with them a bit, feeling like maybe it's possible for him to sometimes have a normal life.

Of course, that's the cue for a panic attack, because Bucky can't ever have things just go nicely.

It happens when Mayling is about to leave for work. She's got an early shift, and she's hopping around in the doorway frantically pulling her shoes on while Crystal slouches across the couch in her pajamas and smirks. Crystal doesn't have to work till later, so she and Bucky aren't getting dressed till noon. He feels a little guilty—one of Daddy's rules is getting dressed in the morning. Bucky Bear reminds him that if he changes clothes at 11:59, it's still technically the morning.

Bucky thinks that's probably not what Daddy meant, but he's too caught up in watching Mayling play-attack Crystal, grabbing her and poking her while she squirms. They're laughing, he's laughing, and even Bucky Bear is amused. Mayling grins as she ruffles Crystal's hair.

Then she dips Crystal backward, lifts her shirt, and blows a raspberry on her stomach. Bucky freezes, feeling impatient hands pulling at his own clothes, the memory of a tongue. For a minute he's back in his old room, little and helpless and unable to stop what's about to happen.

Except he's in Crystal's kitchen. Reality's a little blurry right now, but he does know that. It doesn't stop the tightening in his lungs, the spinning in his head.

It's such a small, stupid thing to set him off. It's not even what he's thinking, he _knows_ it's not. Even he can see that Crystal's still laughing. That her protests aren't serious, that her "You're gonna be late!" is only halfhearted. But his knuckles have gone very white on the kitchen counter, where he's clinging to stay upright.

Neither of them notice, too caught up in each other. Crystal squirms and giggles, her head tilting back, and it's only when Mayling's blown a raspberry into her neck and made her shriek—Bucky's tummy clenches hard—that she is finally released and Mayling is pressing a goodbye kiss to her lips.

Crystal's still breathless with laughter after Mayling is gone, so it takes her a moment to notice that Bucky's gone rigid and white. 

"Are you okay? Okay, you're not okay. Hang on, Bucky."

He's trying to determine if he's going to puke up breakfast. If he is, he should run to the bathroom right now. But the scene is replaying over and over again, just like the ghosts of fingertips creeping across his body, and he can't _move_. He's frozen, just like all the years he kept perfectly still so that he wouldn't protest or fight.

Crystal helps him to a chair and puts the kitchen trash in his lap in case he gets sick. She helps him get out his phone, where Daddy recorded a message reminding him to breathe, counting to ten for him, just in case he was ever out alone and needed help calming down.

As soon as she knows he's fully in the present, she's promising him that everything is okay and that what just happened was perfectly consensual. She's fine. Everything is fine.

"I know," Bucky manages, when he's absolutely sure he won't throw up. He wishes he didn't mess up everything. They were just having fun. Nothing bad happened. He freaked out over _nothing,_  just like he always does.

Crystal insists it's not nothing if it's hurting him, that she and Mayling can set boundaries if that would make him feel safer. 

"I think I'll be okay, really," Bucky says. It was just unexpected, and sometimes the littlest things trigger really big memories. They're not always bad, they just make him feel a lot of things all at once. But he thinks he understands the play-arguing, the wrestling. It's just like Pepper fighting with Tony when she's not really mad, or the time Clint shot foam arrows at Tasha and she jumped on him till he fell over. Those things scared him at first too.

Or like the first time Daddy tickled him, when he did it too much because he didn't know Bucky's last daddy used to do that. He'd had a panic attack and had been too scared to ask Daddy to stop— _that would be uncooperative that would be disobedient_ —and he'd lain rigid until Daddy realized and wrapped him in a blanket and said a whole lot of "sorrys".

"You can always say the safeword if you don't feel okay," Crystal says, scooting up a chair next to him. 

"I wish I _could_ be okay," Bucky blurts out, thinking of the time before the war when he used to play-wrestle with Daddy sometimes. Daddy was a lot smaller then, so he'd make sure to go easy. Daddy's even gentler than that with him now, and even so, Bucky still manages to get upset over everything. He wishes he could be touched without worrying about triggers, could roughhouse without fear of losing control or getting pinned down, could stop his brain from turning every fun thing into the stuff his last daddy used to do to him in bed.

But it's not like it's a choice. He can still feel his last daddy's hands, like spiders crawling over his body and making him shudder. Or his _tongue_ —Bucky's stomach heaves again, thinking of Mayling's raspberries all over, feeling something licking at his neck, a nipple—he gags a little—and his tummy and thighs. Tugging at his clothes the way Mayling pulled up Crystal's shirt—quickly, without warning, assuming permission was a given because _no_ is ungrateful and bad. Because of course Bucky's body belonged to him, just like everything else did.

"I _know_ the difference," he explains, "I just wish my brain would understand. Sometimes I feel like I take everything good and just ruin it."

Crystal pulls her chair closer. "That's not true, though," she says, her eyes very serious, "You just have some things people need to be more careful about. And I can tell your family loves you a lot, Bucky. So they do that for you. That's what you do for someone you care about,"

"They shouldn't have to," Bucky mutters, "It makes everything harder on everyone else."

"That's not true, either," she says firmly, "They're your family, and families take care of each other. Some people just have more to be careful about. And I _know_ you make your daddy really happy and I'm not gonna just let you keep being mad at yourself for something you didn't even do wrong." Her face is fierce and she sounds kind of like Tasha does when she lectures Bucky on egotistical self-loathing.

"I make Daddy happy?" he blurts out in spite of himself. He never gets tired of hearing it.

"Uh-huh, I can tell. He brightens up just from being around you."

He feels so warm and he can't look up from his lap.

"Starting to feel any better? Wanna go watch TV?"

"In a minute," he says, trying to figure out how to ask the question that's suddenly formed in his head. He should probably think it over beforehand, but in the moment it feels all-encompassing. "How, um..."

"Yeah?"

"How...does having a girlfriend work?" Bucky's not always sure of the best way to phrase these things, but he's pretty sure that wasn't it. He wonders if his face is as red as it feels. "Do you think someone like me could ever...um. Have one?"

"Sure! I mean, if you were ready. And it works different for everyone," she says knowledgeably, "So that's just something you have to figure out as you go."

"What if. Because people. When they, um." He wraps his arms tight around Bucky Bear and tries again. His face isn't quite so hot now, mostly because Crystal's not laughing at him, not at what he's saying or how clumsily he's saying it. When he opens his mouth again, his words come out in a rush. "I'm not even sure if I _want_ to play the grown-up games, maybe not ever again. Except maybe. Maybe I—I don't know. Or if I just wanted to go on a date with girls, only I wouldn't have to do anything like that because you're not s'posed to have to. And—could there be, like, a boyfriend and girlfriend like that—or girlfriend and girlfriend, or anything else," he quickly amends, "And they didn't have to do that stuff? Could that happen?"

"Oh, yeah. That's a thing. I'm gonna email you some links to some stuff later, but I think we should talk about this when you're not little, if you want, and there can be safewords for whatever we talk about." He thinks she's not quite as little as usual right now, and he feels bad for making her be big when they were supposed to be here to have fun. "Quick question: are you asking because of today, or is there anyone you have in mind?"

"No one." Bucky's not even sure he would know _how_ to date, or who could handle someone like him. He thinks he remembers loving to go out to all kinds of places and be with lots of people, a long time ago. But he can't quite remember how to do that without getting embarrassed or shy. Without getting tired from being alert to his surroundings; he can't _not_ be on guard. And a lot of his problems are just _embarrassing_ , even though his doctors are trying to help him feel better about them. It's hard to convince himself that anyone could even want him the way he is.

He's not even sure he would like it if they did. His tummy squirms uncomfortably, thinking of the way his last daddy used to look at him sometimes.

But. Tony has a lot of problems and he's got Pepper. And he's pretty sure Natasha's dated people, too. He might ask her about it. But then, he might not, because while it sounds like a good way to get advice, it also sounds like a good way to get Red Panda thrown at his head, and he's not quite sure which way it would go.

JARVIS might know, or his doctors. If he could work up the courage, he could even ask his family.

Or he could try never going on a date with anyone, ever, and hiding his head under his pillow when he gets home.

Crystal puts her hand on his arm. "Hey," she says, "Whatever you decide to do, it's okay. You can figure it out slow. It's a lot to think about, isn't it? I think it's too big for you right now."

He nods, and lets her help him to his feet. He still feels a little unsteady, but they manage to get over to the couch. Crystal gives him a juice box and puts a blanket over them both, and after a few enrapturing hours of Steven Universe, they're both lazily content once again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set sometime in the future. I'm not sure how long it'll take before Bucky feels comfortable sleeping over at Crystal's, but seeing as he just managed to handle a sleepover on familiar territory and surrounded by family, I feel like it might be a while.
> 
> Also, because it isn't yet decided how Mayling relates to Crystal's 'little' side, I'm just assuming that as of right now she has not taken on a caregiving role, but has seen Crystal (and any ageplaying friends) being little and interacts accordingly. I also HC that she's not quite as sexual with Crystal when she's little, but the dynamic isn't entirely non-sexual and that they're still ironing out what everything means.
> 
> In regards to the part mentioned where Alexander Pierce was licking Bucky's body—I actually HC that Alex never performed oral sex on Snowflake, because the ageplay was about demeaning the Soldier. Performing oral sex on someone can be seen as a way of putting oneself in a submissive or vulnerable position for them, and so Alex would have had the Soldier do it for him and not the other way around. All the licking is for Alex's pleasure and for the purpose of manipulating Snowflake, because he's not sure how he feels about it and because it enforces his no-refusal conditioning and his silence about his own discomfort.


	22. Like It Was Yesterday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _I couldn't say I didn't want it. It'd be ungrateful. But I_ didn't _want—not that—it_ didn't _feel like love! It_ hurt! 
> 
> Bucky has a particularly intense nightmare. Steve is there to help him work through the aftermath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: graphic mentions of rape ahead. There's some not-so-happy stuff in this chapter, so read with caution.

Nightmares are a frequent occurrence for Bucky, Steve knows that. But JARVIS hasn't woken him in the middle of the night since those first few months in the Tower, back when Bucky was constantly one medical crisis away from his brain shutting down and unable to place himself squarely within reality. If he's being called in now, things are _bad._

Sure enough, Bucky's rigid in the bed, moaning and choking. JARVIS reports a sky-high pulse and temperature as well as frenetic and unstable brain activity. Steve doesn't ask how JARVIS can monitor brain activity, or exactly what he can infer from it. He's grateful for the AI's help, really, but being under constant watch can get a little creepy.

 **I HAVE BEEN UNABLE TO WAKE HIM, SIR,** JARVIS says, and though Steve tries to reach him with calming words, he has no success.  **I THOUGHT IT UNWISE TO SOUND AN ALARM ON HIM IN THIS STATE.**

"Probably a good call," Steve agrees, tentatively reaching for Bucky Bear. Touching Bucky could be a bad idea right now, so Steve uses the bear to nudge at him until he wakes, hyperventilating. Then he's scrambling up in the bed, hand over his mouth.

Nights this rough were once a regular occurrence. They've become rare, and Steve is glad. Not that he wouldn't sit with Bucky like this all night if he had to, but it's heart-wrenching to see him in such distress. He sits down on the edge of the bed while Bucky sobs and rocks and grasps at the sheets. Occasionally he reaches for Steve, but then jerks back, shuddering, upon being touched. Steve sits by helplessly, murmuring reassurances and promising, "I'm right here, Buck. I'll be here as long as you need me. You're safe, I promise. I know you're scared. It's okay. I'll stay right here."

" _Hurts,_ Daddy!" Bucky finally manages, and this time, when he reaches, he doesn't pull away. His fingers find Steve's and latch on tight.

"What hurts, honey?" Steve asks. Bucky pants a little bit, his eyes wet. "It's okay, you can take your time. It's okay if you can't say it right now."

And so Bucky goes back to crying on the bed. Steve manages, without touching him too much, to coax him back into a pile of pillows. If he needs to hit or thrash or just lash out, he can do it without hurting himself. He seems a bit more lucid and present by the time Steve's done, sitting on his knees amid the soft tangle of bedding. He's still shuddering, and every so often he grabs vaguely at his body as though he doesn't know what to fix. Steve has a feeling he knows the basic subject of the nightmare, and Bucky confirms it a few minutes later.

"The first time...um. Usually. He, he wanted me to say goodnight with my mouth." Bucky gags a little, remembering, and Steve just wants to _hold_ him. He hovers tentatively within touching range, but Bucky still shrinks back from him, so all he can do is drape the heavy therapy blanket over his shoulders and hope it helps.

"The first time he wanted me to. I didn't know, didn't understand, what he was gonna do. He told me it was a special, a—a new kind of game. Not like where I said something with my mouth, like him s-saying he loved me—" Bucky's rocking back and forth again, twisting at the hem of his shirt. "—with his whole body. But Daddy, I _couldn't_ —couldn't say I didn't want it. It'd be ungrateful. But I _didn't_  want—not that—it _didn't_ feel like love! It _hurt!_ It really, really _hurt!"_ He begins hyperventilating in earnest now. "I'm sorry, Daddy, I'm sorry I'm sorry I'll be good don't go—"

 _"Bucky,"_ Steve says firmly, though he's feeling deeply shaken. It's been a _while_ since they've had an episode like this, the strings of apologies, the confusion over which Daddy is which. "I'm not going anywhere. I won't hurt you. I'm here, lamb, I love you. It's okay. He's not here, you're safe, you can say what you need to say." Bucky just looks at him with such wide, scared eyes. "You're doing such a good job, honey, I know it's really hard to say all this. But I think maybe you'll feel better if you tell me what's going on, and how I can help. That's all I want to do, Buck, I swear. I just want to help."

"Sorry," Bucky mutters between breaths, "sorry. For. Freaking out. Can't stop, I can't stop."

"That's all right. Just do what you need to do. And I'll stay right here, I promise. It's okay."

It takes a few counts of deep breaths and a lot more reassurance before Bucky is able to continue, but finally, after his mouth works for a bit, he seems to start finding words again. "It felt like lies, when he was doing it," he whimpers, "And like I was doing something bad. Because it was supposed to be love but it _hurt,_ I didn't want it, it was in me and hurting me all inside—it felt disgusting, and after, when it was all still in me, I was still hurting and gross—"

Bucky pauses to get his wheezing and gagging under control, and Steve has to struggle not to show how much he's seeing red right now. Every so often it just hits him again that he _knew_ Alexander Pierce. That the grandfatherly, benevolently smiling man had had it in him to do _this._ Had _been_ doing this the whole time Steve knew him.

As soon as Bucky's able to speak again, he launches right back into his horrified, almost desperate recanting. 

"—there was blood and _it_ coming out of me, I couldn't stop it, and he was laying with me and _touching_ me all over, and telling me I was so good, I was his good little boy. Only I didn't _feel_ good. Even though it felt like he lied, I felt like I was the worst little boy in the world. And I was just so scared, even though I didn't know what to do, I just kept holding onto him 'cause he was telling me I was good and I just—it was all I had!"

Steve barely keeps himself from throwing himself at Bucky and holding him tight and promising he _is_ good; given what Bucky's reliving right now, that's entirely certain to make things worse. But he just feels so helpless, watching Bucky work through the intense pain of his emotions without being able to reach out and comfort him. "Sweetheart, that's awful. It wasn't your fault at all. You're right, he lied, I know it felt horrible for you, but it's all on him, I swear. And now you're safe, okay? I know it feels real right now, and I'm sorry you're hurting so bad. But it's not real, he isn't here, he can't get you anymore. And whatever you did to get through it, well, that got you through it. None of it's your fault."

He tries to quell the thought,  _it's mine._ Natasha, Sam, and Dr. Barnett have been lecturing him on that recently, and they all seem to agree: it's terrible for him. More importantly, guilt about the past doesn't help Bucky now. It might even hurt him. But when Bucky says things like  _it was all I had,_ it's hard not to blame himself for letting his best friend down. He's trying to take the advice he's always giving to Bucky: blame HYDRA for things that are HYDRA's fault, and not himself.

Bucky's starting to go limp and worn-out now, still crying softly. "Thanks, Daddy," he says weakly, and then, "Um."

By now Steve's rather fluent in Bucky-speak, and he knows pretty well what that tone of "um" means. "Need a bath?" But baths were one of Pierce's things, weren't they? "Or a shower? Are you okay to try standing up just yet?"

"Um," Bucky says again, "Can you come in the bathroom with me?"

"You sure?" Steve asks, astonished and a little touched that Bucky has that level of trust in him after everything he just relived, "I'll come if you want, I just thought you might want privacy right now."

"I—" Compulsively, Bucky scratches his fingers all over his body, "I can still _feel_ him, touching me. And, and—I can feel. _Him_. And my head just—I know it's not real. But it _feels_ really real. I need help, Daddy," he says plaintively, his eyes teary and afraid. "I need _help._ "

"Hey, okay. Of course I'll come. I'll keep you safe." Even if the Avengers' alarm went off right at this moment, Steve would still delay that mission for this bath. "And that's gonna be a star on your chart for telling me you need help. I know it can be hard. I'm proud of you."

Even though he's still shaky and struggling to stand, Bucky manages a hint of a smile.

Steve dutifully turns away while Bucky's undressing, making sure to fill the bath with enough bubbles to hide his body, if that helps at all. He hears the rustling of clothes, the sound of a wet pull-up being discarded, and then Bucky's anxious voice imploring him, "Don't look, okay?"

"Just gonna stare straight at this wall," Steve assures him as he hears Bucky gingerly lowering himself into the tub. "Temperature okay?"

"Uh-huh." He can _hear_ the relief in Bucky's voice as he hits the warm water. He still hasn't fully recovered, though, and it's breaking Steve's heart to just sit here and listen to his little boy sniffling and crying in the bathtub. 

"Just let me know if there's anything I can do to make you feel better, all right? I can wash your hair at some point, or whatever you want."

"Oh, um—" The water sloshes as Bucky shifts, his metal arm bumping audibly against the side of the tub.

"I don't have to, though, you can say if you don't want me to." Steve adds quickly, "You never have to let anyone touch you in a way you don't want, Buck. I just meant I want to know what you need to feel better."

Bucky sloshes the water again. "Tell me a story?"

So Steve does. He recites story after story from memory, his hand resting on the edge of the tub, reaching out so that Bucky can hold onto him if it helps. Bucky doesn't, but Steve sees, out of the corner of his eye, the gleam of a soapy metal thumb resting millimeters from his pinkie.

It takes a couple more partial drainings and refillings, several additional squirts of bubble soap, and many renditions of "Sleeping Beauty" before Bucky says he's ready to get out of the bath. But when he does, he's much calmer than before, and he allows Steve to come near for the first time so that he can be wrapped up in a towel.

And back in bed, Steve finally gets to hold him and promise him that he's good and brave and so, so strong. "You've got so many memories like that, huh? The kind that come back and hurt you just as much all over again."

"Uh-huh." Bucky nestles his head under Steve's, clinging tight. "And then I do things like this. And I can't help it but I still feel bad. It's hard."

"I know it is, sweetheart, but you're doing so much better than you used to be. Remember?" He gives Bucky a moment to think back. "I can see you getting stronger every day. And even with all these things hurting you so much, you're still building your life back up and you have come so far. I'm so proud of you, Buck. I really am. And, hey, I just heard you saying you can't help it when these things happen. There was a time you'd have been so upset with yourself. In fact, I'm gonna make that another star for you. Have Bucky Bear remind me in the morning, okay?"

"'Kay." He can hear the smile in Bucky's voice, which is what he'd been hoping for. If he can manage a smile after this hell of a night, he's going to be okay.

With the horror he's just gone through, Bucky has a hard time getting back to sleep, so Steve stays with him, holding on tight and murmuring promises that he's safe now, trying to banish the creeping hands and invasive presence of the ghost on the other side of the bed.

Of course, he won't stay gone, not for Steve and certainly not for Bucky. Steve can do a lot, but he can't keep Alexander Pierce from coming back to haunt them both.

What he can do is tell the ghost that in the end, he's won. And that, more importantly, so has Bucky Barnes.


	23. If Found, Please Call

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Bucky's little, Manhattan can seem really big and scary.
> 
> Luckily, he's got a good community to help him get home safe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote [a comment](https://archiveofourown.org/comments/63379978) suggesting incidents where strangers take care of Snowflake during rough moments. Then [someone requested something similar](http://lauralot89.tumblr.com/post/145106909621/based-on-this-comment-i-like-the-idea-that), and I decided to write it out. As usual, it ended up longer than I intended.

Bucky can't breathe.

His body is feeling the iron rails of a cage against his bloodied ribs, his skin opened and the hard, cruel voice above him. A boot slamming into the bars right in front of his face, and he cries out. A few people scuttle around him, wide-eyed.  _Sorry, I'm sorry,_ he'd tell them if he could breathe, if he could make words come out.

He needs to get home.

Bucky Bear's trying to tell him there's no way the tall man who just walked by could've been that mean, bad handler from years ago. That was all the way in Russia and it was sometime back in the beginning of his training as the Asset. That man must be old or dead now.

But. _But_. Bucky's heart and the bear's stuffing constrict. Back then Russia was trying to make more super soldiers. _Those_ people could live in ice all these years just like he did.

He needs Daddy. Right now. He needs someone to protect him and help him figure out where to go. He needs to breathe, needs Daddy's arms tight around him. He also, he realizes, really needs the bathroom.

But he can't move, because that man could still be out there, or anyone or anything and walking back through the city all by himself seems so scary and—

"Hey. Hey there. You okay?" 

He realizes he's been making a sound like a long drawn-out whine, his hands over his mouth. This could be a trap. Anything could be a trap and anyone could be dangerous and—

And he's looking at a teenage girl with pink in her hair.

She's small and thin, and she looks a little nervous, but she's not running away from him like everyone else did. He is eyes keep coming back to the pale pink parts of her white-blond hair. Somehow, though he doesn't really know why, he feels like that makes her safe. 

Bucky Bear remains wary, but he always is.

"You need any help?" she asks.

"I—I—I need Daddy!" he manages, his vision blurring with tears. When he blinks them away, she's holding out her hand. Not touching, just offering it out. 

"Okay. Okay, do you know where he is, honey?" 

"He's at _home!_ " Bucky wails, "I thought I could come out here alone and I can't do it, I can't do _anything_ —"

"No, sweetie, you're doing great. I'm just gonna need you to tell me how to get hold of him. Do you have his number?" she asks patiently.

"In my phone." Bucky Bear knows it, but he's too busy being suspicious of this girl to help Bucky right now. 

"Okay, great. Good job. How about we sit somewhere, and I'll get you something to drink, and we'll call him? That sound good?"

"Um, I—" the mention of drinking reminds him. He presses his legs together, squirming. "I—"

The girl leans in, speaking quietly now. "Need to go potty?"

His face is so hot and red as he nods.

"Okay, we'll find you one. I know a place. We'll get you some cocoa, okay? And you can calm down a bit? And we'll call your daddy for you, does that sound good?"

Anyplace that has a bathroom sounds good right now. And she looks so genuinely concerned, not impatient or mad like he's being an inconvenience. Slowly, Bucky reaches out and takes her outstretched hand.

Later, he's sitting at a table in a small little cafe, drinking hot chocolate with his hands wrapped around the warmth of the cup. The girl, who introduced herself as Katie, is telling him stories about her family, and they sound really nice. She's got a little brother who's seven, as old as Tasha, and he just barely keeps from saying so. Tasha might not like being talked about where she can't hear. 

He's just thought that maybe he'd be calm enough to venture out on his own—he knows the way back to the Tower now that he's not panicking—when Daddy bursts in the door. A bunch of other people make sounds of alarm. Daddy's looking frantically around trying to find him, so Bucky gives him a sheepish wave. The next thing he knows, his face is squashed tight against Daddy's chest.

 _"Oof,"_ he says, but it's nice, being safe and sure that Daddy won't let anyone from HYDRA take him away. "Hi, Daddy."

"Buck. Are you okay? Did anyone try and take you? Were you scared?"

Bucky wriggles so that Daddy can sit in the chair, too, and maybe stop squashing his face, which is burning hot with embarrassment. "M'okay. I got scared over probably nothing, Daddy. M'sorry."

"Don't be sorry," Daddy pulls away and cups his chin, "You can call me anytime you need me. Oh, honey..."

"I'm fine!" Bucky says impatiently, "Katie helped me. She took me here and gave me cocoa."

Immediately, Daddy turns to Katie. "Thank you _so much_ for calling me. And looking after him. I—thank you."

"Of course," Katie says, looking shy for the first time. He cheeks are pink. "No problem."

"I mean it, thank you." And Daddy gives her a phone number and says if she ever needs help, or a favor or anything, she can reach him there. She's blushing really red now, looking the way lots of people look when they see Daddy. 

"Oh—oh, thank you. But really, it's no problem." She and Daddy gush over each other a little more while Bucky finishes his cocoa, and then she leaves with a quick ruffle of Bucky's hair. "Take care, kiddo."

And then Daddy walks home with him, keeping him safe from scary things, both on the streets and in his head. Bucky looks and looks, but he doesn't see the man from earlier.

But he's still glad Daddy's got a tight hold of his hand.

*

Bucky's not sure which stuffed animals Crystal will like best.

She loves plush toys of any variety, and he knows she'll probably be happy with whatever he picks. But he wants to get her the perfect gift, and now he's trying to figure out exactly what that is.

There's a pink unicorn with a shimmery horn. A dolphin, its body sewn into a diving arc. Bucky Bear likes the lion that roars and growls when you squeeze it. They're all really nice, but Bucky wants his gift to be more personal. When he first met Crystal, he was going through a really rough time, and he didn't know where to turn. He also didn't know how to look for help, to seek any kind of community. He'd just about managed to convince himself he didn't deserve to try. That he'd never really belong in any sort of public space, that he was stupid to ever think he could.

Crystal turned those thoughts right around, and she kept on doing it whenever Bucky faltered or had a setback. With her encouragement, he did learn to find communities, and share his experiences with the world. Now, with the tentative first successes of the prosthetic initiative, he's been able to give interviews and talk to people who've had similar experiences. He has Crystal to thank for really showing him how during those first few tentative meetings at Toy box, amid scattered plastic blocks and graham cracker crumbs.

He wants to get her something special. Something she'll really love.

If he texted Judah, Dakota, or Mayling for help, they'd probably tell him that, knowing Crystal, that would mean buying the whole shelf. Bucky thinks, possibly, that would be going overboard.

While he's considering a fuzzy brown hedgehog, his eyes fall on a floppy blue ear, and just like that, his chest is tightening. He remembers with vivid acuity the brush of fingers against his mouth, the comb in his hair, the fireplace and the coloring books and keeping still in the bath. The ever-present unease. The shattering glass in his head.

He knew, when he came to look at stuffed animals, that there might be bunnies. But he wasn't prepared for _this_ bunny. And he's trying to tell himself it's not the same one. It's not. This one's ears aren't worn and misshapen, and it still has all its fur. It's a slightly different texture and shade, and it's sitting on its haunches, not splayed out with rag-doll legs.

But it's blue and floppy-eared and he could swear it looks  _sad_ like it did all those dark nights, clinging to Daddy and scared to let go. Like every tear he couldn't let fall. And the feel of the fabric under his hands as he clung on through the pain, as all of Daddy was forced roughly, indifferently into him in one way or another. The times when the glass broke and he got a moment above the surface to see the scope of the hopelessness clearly. Looking at the bunny wondering how long this had been going on, how old the bunny was and what real child had truly loved it, once, a child who could love as he never could. A child who wasn't broken and hopeless, just clinging to whatever illusion of an anchor to be had, that child and that life long gone now.

He's vaguely aware of a young, shrill voice, shouting, and at first he thinks it's just part of the flashback. Then an an older, heavily accented voice is saying, "I'm going to move you now, is that okay?"

He's being guided down the aisle, and the part of him that's slipped back into numb obedience is fighting with the part that says this man could be anyone and Bucky shouldn't trust him. But he has a toddler clinging to his leg, and his voice is so soft and steady as he steers Bucky out of the store. Vaguely, he's aware of the toddler voicing high-pitched complaints, tugging at the man's pants as they settle onto a bench outside.

"Shh, pumpkin, just a minute," the man soothes, ruffling the child's hair. To Bucky, he says, "What frightened you?"

Bucky shakes his head. There's no way he can talk about the bunny and how hopeless and sad it makes him feel, how its downturned mouth and glassy plastic eyes used to fill him with dread for years of grown-up games to come. The desperate, hollow way he played at love, soaking up every touch because he was so starved for the real thing. Knowing, in those moments of clarity, that it would never get any better. In the end, he was as empty and sad as that limp, chewed-up bunny, and he'd never know love, not really.

"I want my daddy," he manages, and tears spill down his cheeks.

"Your dad." The man bounces the child on his leg to quiet him. "Shh, Ravi. Your dad, that would be Captain Rogers?"

"Uh-huh." He flushes; of course this man knows who he is. Everyone in the world watched his trial, it seems. They all know what his last daddy made him. It's useless to try to hide what's in his head. This man _knows_.

 _That sounds like paranoia,_ he hears Miriam saying, _what's in your head is yours, James._

But that doesn't mean everyone doesn't know more than he'd like them to.

The man fiddles with his phone for a little while. Calls don't go straight to the Tower or else Tony and Pepper would be swamped. Even so, the man is eventually able to reach JARVIS, who says he'll notify Daddy that Bucky needs him. Bucky's head slides down to the man's shoulder, awash in relief. Ravi eyes him suspiciously and buries his face in his dad's other side.

Not a minute later, Bucky's phone begins to ring. He has to fumble with his backpack a bit, but he manages to get it out and put it to his ear.

"Buck?" Daddy says breathlessly, "What's the matter?"

"I love you, Daddy," he blurts out. He doesn't want to explain, not in front of this stranger, about his last daddy touching him and the simultaneous craving and dread, the shame in equal parts for both, the desperation for love. His Daddy now isn't like that, and that's all that matters. He's allowed to be a real person now, he's a little boy who can love and be loved back.

"You, too, Bucky," Daddy says instantly.

Imperfect and broken and full of messy, complicated feelings, and still he can love and be loved. This life is so _real_. Trembling, Bucky cries into the speaker and asks for a story, and Daddy recites for him until he can breathe evenly again, and there will be no thank-yous or punishments to make up for this incident. Daddy just _loves_ without demanding anything back.

Bucky slumps on the bench with his head on the man's shoulder, letting Ravi poke at his arm and tug on his hair. The more his father tries to intervene, the more intent Ravi seems on pulling and prodding.

"Sorry," Bucky eventually mumbles. He's usually okay, nowadays, but every so often something like this will happen and he'll wonder why he's allowed outside. Isn't being a public nuisance considered an offense or something?

The man assures him this isn't a case of nuisance and he's sure it must be hard, going through what he did.

Ravi is now trying to chew on his hair. The man apologizes and scolds his son, but not like he's really mad. Gently detached from Bucky's hair, Ravi pouts for a second and sticks his finger in his mouth. Bucky watches intently—it's always fascinating, seeing how being a parent is _supposed_ to work. No one threatens to stop loving and no one comes away with bruises. The kids don't ever seem scared, taking it for granted that they won't be hurt or abandoned if they're not good. Bucky finds it amazing, every time.

"It's just stupid," he mutters, "I got so upset because of a _bunny_. No one does that. I'm _pathetic._ "

"That is not true," the man says as Ravi tries to climb up onto his shoulders, "Sometimes it's the small things that bring back big memories. Just because it's small doesn't mean it's not important. Anything can hurt. You don't have to be sorry."

He says it like he knows from experience, and Bucky wonders if bad things ever happened to him. Or maybe it was someone else in his life, because this man is easygoing and put-together and he has a son, and could he manage any of those things if he were as messed up as Bucky is?

Then again, all the Avengers are pretty messed up and they manage to have mostly normal lives. Bucky thinks maybe he's the only one who acts as broken as he does.

But the way the man warned him before touching him, guiding him with an open hand rather than grabbing or pulling. Maybe he does know someone who gets flashbacks and panic attacks. Someone else who needs help calming down or staying in the present. Bucky thinks of his doctors and Sam mentioning support groups and he'd always brushed off their suggestions, disliking the idea of sharing his most vulnerable moments with a big group of people. Now, however, he thinks _maybe_. He could ask about smaller groups. It would really help to know he's not the only one who's ever had a public breakdown. 

There are other things, too. Logically, he knows he's not the only person who's faced manipulation and torture and things like the bad games. He knows he's not the only person who's lost touch with reality, who's done bad things in the past, who's lost important memories. He's not the only one who wets his bed or lashes out or needs a lot of help from other people. He does know that, but he can't shake the feeling that these things make him weak and pathetic and bad, that they are shameful. He's not ready to talk about them with the public. Maybe he never will be.

But that doesn't mean no one else has. He could find stories and stuff on the Internet. Maybe he could look for advice from people who've been in similar situations. Probably no one has a story quite like he does, but there are multiple parts to that story, and in each of those parts is a much more universal experience.

Right now, though, he can't handle thinking about that too much. What he can handle is curling up close to the man and waiting for rescue.

The man ruffles his hair and tells him stories until Daddy's there to help him up off the bench and give him a long hug. Daddy profusely thanks the man, who keeps insisting it's no problem.

Bucky's still a little unsteady on his feet, and Daddy puts an arm around him to support him as they walk. Bucky can't say what he's feeling, not yet and not here, but he does hold on tight to Daddy's shirt and nuzzle into his shoulder a little as they walk, and in return, Daddy squeezes him and kisses the top of his head. For now, that's all that needs to be said.

The next day, with many protests from Bucky Bear, Bucky goes over to a Build-a-Bear. Maybe they have creepy empty bear skins hanging around, but at least they don't have bunnies.

He makes a bear with calico fur like Pico de Gato. It wears a ruffled skirt and a little Steven Universe T-shirt, but he also gives it an Iron Man helmet. He throws in some test tubes and a lab coat with goggles, because she admires Bruce. He also finds a tiny glass of bubble tea, and as a final touch, he gives the bear a fuzzy stuffed cat with a tiny toy mouse. He can't find anything related to theoretical physics or bees, but Tony will be able to help with that.

Overall, it makes for a bizarre combination and it's probably the very definition of 'overboard', but Bucky is certain that Crystal will love it. From where he's hidden in Bucky's backpack, Bucky Bear grudgingly agrees.

*

Bucky's halfway to the Commander's apartment the first time he trips.

His left shoe came untied. He tries to keep them tied all the time, just jamming his feet back into his shoes even though Daddy says not to. But Daddy's not always there to knot the laces for him, and he can't do it himself.

He quickly tries kneeling and fixing the problem, but that means there's a whole crowd of people pushing and shoving impatiently around him. He's blocking the sidewalk and holding everything up, and Bucky Bear reminds him that being down here leaves him vulnerable to an attack.

He tries shoving the laces into his shoe, and within five minutes they're loose again. 

This time, Bucky sits down on the curb, trying to find a spot out of everyone's way. He's _going_ to do this. Untied laces are a liability if he gets attacked, he should know how to do it by now, and if he asks the Commander to tie his shoes, the Commander might laugh at him. Bucky really doesn't want the Commander to laugh at him, and neither does Bucky Bear. So the shoes have to be tied.

But no matter what he tries, he just can't do it. He tries to focus—when he's big, he can tie the laces, no problem, but his mind remains stubbornly little and his hands won't work the knots right. He tries it hunched over on the curb with his legs stretched out, he tries it sitting sideways with his knees pulled up, he tries maneuvering his left foot up onto his right leg. None of it helps, and it's so awkward and he feels stupid and he's sure everyone's staring just to watch him fail at something that should be so easy. He stops a moment to put his head down and take some deep breaths. 

"That's really cool! You've got a Captain America shield!"

It's a young voice, soft, in close proximity. Bucky turns to see a small boy with dark skin and wide brown eyes. He's bouncing on his toes and pointing at Bucky's backpack.

Bucky Bear is on guard. The backpack cannot be stolen. It holds many of Bucky's valuables, and in addition to that, it contains several pull-ups and wet wipes in case of spontaneous sleepovers. If a stranger got hold of those, Bucky would have no choice but to die. And Bucky's already scared and he's mad over the shoes and he has to scrub away tears of frustration. He's such a baby. 

"What's the matter, mister?" The boy's voice is hesitant now. "Are you sad?"

Bucky sniffles, blushing furiously. "My shoe..." he mutters, "It won't tie. I'm _trying_." He puts his head down again as tears of defeat begin to fall.

"I can get them!" the boy says, "Don't cry, look! I learned how. Watch!"

Slowly, Bucky raises his head. The boy hops over to where his feet are and crouches down, a look of intense concentration on his face. He's clumsy, arms going in all directions, but when he straightens up, the shoe is tied in a double knot that'll hold for the rest of the day.

"Thanks," he whispers shyly.

 _"James!"_ For a second Bucky flinches, thinking that's directed at him, but instead there's a woman running up the sidewalk, grabbing the boy's arm. "I take my eye off you for one second, one second! I swear, young man, when we get home..."

If anyone yelled at him like that, Bucky would probably want to shrivel up and hide under his bed, or get on his knees and apologize. But the boy only twists indignantly in her grasp. "But Mama, he's got—"

"I don't care what he's got, you stay right with me when we're outside, you don't know the half of what could have happened!" She turns to Bucky, who flinches. "Thank you. For watching him. When I think who could've got hold of him..."

She thinks he's big. She doesn't know who he is, or that he's one of the dangerous people she probably hopes never comes _near_ her son. "No problem," he mutters, hoping she can't tell how small he feels or how his heart's pounding so hard he can hear it. 

As she pulls James on down the sidewalk, he twists in her grasp to wave goodbye. "Don't feel bad, mister!" he says, "Tying shoes is really, really hard. You'll get the hang of it someday!"

And then he's gone, leaving Bucky with a small smile on his face. Maybe he can get Daddy to help him practice tonight.

But there are lots of things he just can't do when he's little, and his family keeps saying that's okay. And sometimes—like today, thinking of James, his earnest shoe-tying and wide, excited eyes—Bucky can even believe them.

*

If you'd asked Bucky, this morning, where he'd hoped to end up when he ventured outside today, "half-naked in a public bathroom" would probably be second-to-last on his list. First place would be back with HYDRA, but this is definitely a close second.

A tap at the door makes him jump. "You still okay in there, Bucky?" Melissa calls, "You sure you don't need any help?"

"Uh-uh," he manages shakily, running a wet wipe up his leg. He's all weak and trembling and he kind of does want help, but the idea of anyone cleaning him up like this makes his insides shrivel up in shame. Besides, he doesn't have any pants on, and he doesn't like feeling exposed when other people are around. 

He doesn't have any pants on because they're soaking wet, and they're soaking wet because he's a _baby_ who can't handle being accused of things that he actually did. He should maybe not even go outside anymore, since he's going to be accused a lot. And also he just had an accident in front of he doesn't know _how_ many people. All he can think of is the comfort of his own room, and how he'd like to get back there and never come out again.

He just attracts trouble wherever he goes, even trying to walk down the street. Not all days, but one time is enough to make him remember how many people lost their lives while he's still walking free. Today it was some man yelling about how he should've died or been locked up where he'd never see the sun. And Bucky thought of never seeing Daddy again, or Tasha or Pepper or Lucky, not Crystal or the Bearvengers, not his sisters or Freddie, and the man was right, he probably deserved all of that. Because this man once had a brother and the brother had a wife, and worst of all, they had a daughter who was littler than Bucky is now. And this man never saw any of them again thanks to the Soldier, so maybe it really would be fair if Bucky got locked away from people. Or if he just got shot in the head and spared everyone the effort.

Bucky Bear was angry at these thoughts and the man causing them, but he felt too sick to be much help at all. He was trying to hold back an unpleasant memory hovering around the edges of his fuzzy head. Blood, and the faint, muffled cry of a child. Bucky Bear was feeling like maybe there wasn't enough stuffing in him, like he was about to fall apart.

Bucky felt faint. "I'm sorry," he kept gasping, "I don't remember, I'm so sorry!" And by then a crowd had gathered, and some people were agreeing with the man and some were trying to get him away, but no one wanted to approach Bucky.

Except for the angry man. "I'm not scared!" he'd yelled, throwing his arms up, "Come at me, huh? You gonna do to me what you did to them?"

But he didn't want to hurt the man. He wasn't supposed to hurt anyone like that ever again. His vision blurred, fuzzing out like static, and for a minute he was scared he'd actually done it. Instead he realized that a wet kind of heat was trickling down the insides of his pant legs. That brought him back to reality. He swayed where he stood, tummy clenching painfully. There was a splattering sound on the sidewalk; everything seemed too loud all around, echoing in his ears.

He couldn't control it, hyperventilating while the man just stood there, staring awkwardly, everyone  _staring_ , and that's when a woman had called, "That's enough!"

Her voice was sharp, but her round, plump face was soft as she put a hand on Bucky's arm to guide him through the crowd. "Move!" she kept snapping, and they moved.

She got a lot softer once she got him into the bathroom. She helped him start breathing again, sitting him down on the toilet and holding him steady in case he fainted. When he didn't, she reassured him that she'd had three kids, this wasn't the first time she'd dealt with accidents, and she could call his daddy to come get him and maybe bring him some pants. 

"Your dad's on his way!" she yells now, "Says he'll be right here!"

Bucky doesn't have the energy to be embarrassed or ashamed of needing to be rescued from another public breakdown. Right now he just wants Daddy.

That, and to not feel so horribly exposed. Melissa promised she wouldn't let anyone in, but he can't convince himself he's safe when he's vulnerable and naked in the middle of a public bathroom. He roots around in his backpack until he can find the least flamboyantly-designed pull-up in his pack. Tony made them, so they're all bright colors with cartoonish patterns, but he does find a purple one with a bow and arrow on the front. If someone did barge in, it'd still be embarrassing, but he feels a whole lot safer just for being covered.

"Um. Melissa?"

"Still right here. What's up?"

"Thanks..."

"No problem, kid."

"I just..." Bucky doesn't have words for how grateful he is, for her help and for the way she hasn't once made a big deal about him needing it. "...not everyone would do that for me."

"Well, they should," she says firmly.

"Why, though?" He can feel shame prickling in his throat, "He's right. That man. I did it. The thing he said I did. It's true." Bucky presses his fingers over his eyes. "He had the right to be mad at me." That's something his doctors are always talking about, the right to feel whatever he feels. 

"Not the right to hurt you, though. It wasn't your fault." Her voice is kind but firm, matter-of-fact and with no hint of pity. For that, Bucky is grateful. She showed no hesitation, no embarrassment or disgust, at leading him through the crowd while he was still having an accident. She'd helped him into the bathroom and held his hand until he could breathe again as if there was nothing out of the ordinary about it. After, she'd promised to keep watch outside the door and not let anyone come in.

She's been so good to him, and she doesn't even know him. She claims it's just what anyone should've done. But why would they?

Sure, Bucky would want to help someone who was scared, or hurt, or being attacked. But _someone else_ isn't him. Just like anyone else in that crowd, Melissa clearly knows who he is and what he's done. But unlike them, she extended her hand when he needed it. Why?

"Your dad's here!" announces Melissa, and then there's a hesitant knock at the door.

"Buck? Can I come in?"

Ideally he'd get pants on first, but right now he's too messed up to care. He opens the door and is immediately drawn into a warm, tight hug. He starts sniffling as Daddy murmurs, "Oh, Buck, I'm so sorry. It's all right now, I've got you."

Bucky clings tight, letting himself be rocked and comforted until his gasping breaths have evened out. Then Daddy holds him steady and helps him slide on a pair of clean sweatpants. His shoes and socks got wet, but Daddy says that's okay and he can carry Bucky home.

"We could even stop somewhere and get you calmed down a little. I could buy you a cookie or—"

 _"Home."_ it comes out as a wail. 

"Okay, Buck. Shh. Okay, we're going home."

"Sorry, Daddy," he manages, trying not to be sick, "I remembered something bad. I—there was a little kid, on mission. A girl. And I. I."

Daddy holds tighter. His face is all white, but he still reaches to cup Bucky's chin. "And none of that was your fault," he says fiercely.

Bucky just buries his face in Daddy's shoulder.

He wasn't sure if Melissa would stay once Daddy got here, but she's waiting just outside the bathroom door. "Hey," she says, "Listen."

"I really need to get him home..." Steve begins.

"I know you do. But this is important. Listen, kid. What you went through, that's rough. It can be really hard to get away. I told you I had three kids. Three kids and one ex-husband, and he was awful to me. Just awful." She sighs, shakes her head. "Just kept on getting worse, too. And I didn't do everything right with my kids, but I got them away from him and it was the hardest thing I ever did. People have no idea how hard. I should've done it sooner, I know that. There were things I let happen that should never've fucking—sorry. Anyway. I made some mistakes, but I got us out."

Her voice is matter-of-fact, like this is a story she's used to telling. Her eyes are fierce and burning like Daddy's get when he cares a whole lot about something.

"Anyway, look, what you went through's a million times worse and you had a hell of a lot less choice. There are always gonna be people who won't understand. Got a few of those in my life, too. And it's always gonna be hard, but don't beat yourself up thinking they're right. Those people, they don't have a clue what it's like. You deserve to have a good life, all right? You deserve a chance to build something better."

"'Kay," Bucky sniffles. He's not sure he can believe it just now, but this woman doesn't look like she'll be satisfied until he says it.

"All right, then. You take care, now."

Daddy rocks him and rocks him when they get back to the car, promising that really, Bucky did so well today. He didn't attack the angry man even when he felt threatened. He doesn't say that he couldn't have even if he wanted to.

Later he'll be coaxed out of his room to talk to his doctors about the mission, and about how the man made him feel, and how to keep from freezing up if this happens again. Later, they might run this story on TV or in the paper, and then the whole world will know.

But for now, there's just Daddy's arms and the lingering memory of the fierce compassion in Melissa's voice, promising him that he deserves better.

*

He doesn't even know what he's running from.

He walked past an ice cream shop and caught a whiff of the smell of vanilla ice cream. Even after all this time, after all the healing his body's done, ice cream makes him gag. It probably always will.

He was holding his breath, stomach lurching, and that's when he heard someone say, " _ama"._

It wasn't even Latin they were speaking, his brain realized after the fact. It was Spanish. But he took off like a shot anyway, trying to outrun the fragmenting of the glass, and he's still running blindly now, his head filled with his last daddy's hands on him, in the bath, in all the hotel rooms, in their bed at night.

He doesn't want to think about that so far from the Tower, to bring Pierce's influence here, now. And so he runs.

Bucky Bear is telling him he needs to stop. He's drawing attention, and attention can mean calls to the police, which leads to bad PR for Pepper to handle and a very worried Daddy. And he has no idea where he is and he didn't pay attention to where he was going and in a minute he'll get out his phone and pull up the GPS app. For now, he just tries to find an out-of-the-way place where he can have a breakdown unnoticed.

The problem with big cities is that they're always, one hundred percent of the time, filled with people, from the fanciest stores to the dirtiest alleys. He looks around, eyes blurring, and he can't see where he's going.

In the end he can't keep back the tears anymore, so he just finds the nearest bench, collapses onto it, and puts his head in his hands. There's a lady in a blue coat at the other end of the bench, and out of the corner of his eye he sees her glance over at him before turning back to her phone.

Maybe she's calling the police. Probably someone is; one time he had a panic attack and he didn't know they'd called the police until cop cars started showing up. He'd been so scared, sure he was going to be in trouble. Maybe they'd decided he was a danger to society after all. Maybe they were going to take him to jail and not let him see Daddy or his family or his bears ever again.

As it had turned out, they'd been really nice. One lady had sat with him and promised she was there to help and he wouldn't be arrested. She helped him into the police car, away from all the staring eyes, and then the driver took him to a big building where a bunch of officers played games with him till Daddy showed up. 

He still thinks he'd be really scared if the police came. A lot of people still don't trust him, and he thinks probably not all cops would be as nice as that lady.

When he gets like this, the emotions swirl up like a storm. Every time he thinks they're dying down, they start churning all over again. He keeps thinking he's ready to get up and try to get home, only to lapse back into tears. He misses Daddy. _Not Daddy,_ he thinks,  _that's my last daddy. That daddy's dead._ He breaks into sobs again, and he feels so guilty for almost wishing there was some way his last daddy could still be alive, that he could see him somehow. 

He feels even guiltier for being out free in the middle of a city full of people his last daddy made him kill. Or if not them, then their families and friends. 

But. _Amā,_ the commanding sound of the word, letting himself give into it. In the bath. In front of the fireplace. In the bed, wrapped in soft thick blankets, with a snowstorm raging outside. The time he came in so cold, the warm, steady arm around his shoulder.

 _Amō._ The time his last daddy told him he could not love. That he shouldn't even try.

His family now loves him so much. He thinks of them, last time he got triggered during movie night, all holding back until he said it was okay to come near, then cuddling him in a big pile with blankets. Pepper talking to him softly when he's scared, the warmth of Tasha's hand in his, Thor's smile and his hugs. The hot cups of tea Bruce makes for him sometimes. Daddy promising that he's with Bucky till the end of the line.

He rocks a little and cries harder. Even the good feelings are a too _much_ feeling right now. No one comes near him, and he wonders vaguely if it's a common occurrence to see someone rocking and crying on a park bench. He hopes no one's scared. He's scared, sometimes, that he'll hurt people by accident. Sometimes he has dreams where his metal arm does it all of its own accord. Or sometimes it's his whole body, while he's trapped inside just watching.

"Sir?" asks a gentle voice. They're close by, probably talking to him. He can't make himself look up, not when his face is all red and probably covered with tears and snot. He gives a little nod instead, to show he can hear. "James? Should I call you James?"

In his backpack, Bucky is saying all kinds of swears that would probably get him in trouble if anyone but Bucky could speak Bear. Too many people have been able to identify him on sight. Bucky Bear doesn't like not being able to hide.

"Bucky," he manages, scrubbing at his face with his fist. Just like that, a handful of tissues are held out in front of him. There's a woman, crouching down so she can look at him, but he can't read her face because his eyes keep blurring over.

"Well, Bucky," she says, "Can I sit here with you?"

He nods, because that's better than the police being called. He hears her settling onto the bench next to him.

"Is there anything I can do to help?" she asks, "Someone I can contact?"

"Uh-uh," he shakes his head, "Don't call Daddy." He's already made Daddy come save him enough; it makes him worry and he always acts like he's so sorry for not getting there ten times faster, as though he should be able to Apparate like in Harry Potter whenever Bucky needs him. Then Bucky just feels like a burden and when he's grown-up again he gets really embarrassed at needing to be rescued all the time.

The lady's voice is soft. "Why shouldn't I call him, Bucky?" When he can't answer right away she adds, "Are you scared he'd be mad?"

Bucky shakes his head really fast. His daddy now isn't like his last, and Bucky remembers Rumlow thought that once. He didn't realize it then because he was so upset, but that had really, really hurt Daddy. 

"Okay," she says, "Is there anyone else I can call?"

He thinks quickly. Or rather, since he's freaking out, Bucky Bear thinks quickly and tells him that Pepper's on a business trip and Tony would probably come get him in some dramatic way that would overwhelm him more and attract lots of attention. Bruce is at home, but being in the crowded city makes him tense. Natasha—

Natasha could help. She's out at the apartment building where Clint had that situation last summer. They both still have to go over there to keep something running smoothly; Bucky's not exactly sure what.

He almost says "My sister" before remembering that Tasha doesn't want the world to know about her being little. "My friend."

"All right. You want to do that now?"

"Can't." He doesn't want to be difficult, he really doesn't. "I can't stop crying!" He's starting up again; this time he doesn't even know why.

"Okay," she says patiently, "Well, I have an idea. I'd actually been heading out to meet my family for lunch just now."

And he's made her late, and he's still holding her up now. "Sorry."

"No, no, it's okay. I was just going to say, I didn't want to leave you alone here, but how about if we sit for a little bit until you feel better? And then, if you want, you could come eat with us?"

He freezes. After all this time, he still can't shake the feeling that everyone will see him as someone dangerous and bad. Someone soiled by violence and blood. Someone to keep away from their family. 

"I mean, I have to warn you, I have a son who's into history. He might be a little overenthusiastic to meet the real Bucky Barnes." She rolls her eyes, but she's smiling.

A kid looks up to him. There are people who consider him an idol. How does he be an idol? Right now he can't even be a grown-up. 

"I just don't want to leave you here all by yourself when you're not feeling good," she says softly.

But if she doesn't go, he'll make her miss lunch with her family.

Her eyes are so soft and kind.

"'Kay," he whispers. 

He's not sure he'll be steady on his feet, but she moves slowly and patiently, texting her husband to let him know she's bringing Bucky with her. He's a little worried that maybe her husband will object to him coming, but if he does, she doesn't say so.

He hasn't been to a whole lot of restaurants because they tend to be crowded and noisy and they make Bucky Bear nervous. He has to keep an eye on a lot of people in a small space, which means if there was an attacker, innocent people might get hurt.

Bears are meant to protect people, or at least Bucky Bear is, and he takes his job very seriously.

On the way over there, she tells him about her family. Her name is Sandy, and her husband is Alex. That makes him tense a little, because Alex is what Daddy calls his last daddy. It's meant to disrespect him, to diminish him in Bucky's memories so he'll be less afraid. It doesn't really work.

Sandy also has a teenage daughter named Willow, who plays lacrosse and likes Harry Potter just like he does. Her son, Jonas, is eleven, and he's the one who's into history.

Bucky can tell which one is Jonas because the moment they step into the restaurant he hears, "Mom! Mom, you really brought Bu—"

"Jonas," Sandy says, her hand on Bucky's arm, sensing his spike in anxiety, "Shh. We'd rather not attract too much attention or people to bother Bucky, all right?"

Jonas has reddish-blond curls and round, serious eyes. "Oh. Okay, sorry," he says, sliding out of the booth to make room for his mother. 

"S'okay," Bucky mumbles. Sandy pulls up a chair for him since he can't fit in the booth with them, and he's glad. He doesn't like the idea of being trapped between someone else and the wall, and he doesn't want them to feel trapped, either, in case they don't feel safe around him.

Which seems a valid concern. Though Alex is friendly to him (and nothing like his last daddy at all) and Jonas is practically shaking in his seat with excitement, the teenage girl on his left is looking blank-faced and stiff.

Immediately he wants to apologize for imposing himself on her family and probably ruining her day. Clearly, she's not happy; she doesn't introduce herself to him, and gives barely a nod of acknowledgement when Sandy says, "Willow, this is Bucky. Bucky, this is my daughter, Willow."

He doesn't have time to dwell on it, because Jonas is leaning toward him. 

"Can I ask you questions? About history and stuff. Like the Howling Commandos and Captain America."

"Um." Bucky manages to say, even though he's still a little nervous, "I can try. I don't remember a whole lot. I know more about Daddy now than back then." 

Jonas looks confused. Really, really weirdly confused, in a way Bucky doesn't understand. And then Sandy murmurs, "Alex, you didn't tell him? I told you..." and Bucky gets it. It takes him a minute, but then he remembers. The look on Daddy's face when he first tried to play the grown-up games, the way he avoided Bucky after and how long it took him to be able to get close again. How he always had that sneaking suspicion Maria Hill liked him better when he was big. The reactions in court when everyone found out about Bucky's last daddy turning him little.

"Jonas didn't watch your trial," Willow says under her breath, just it's all dawning on him. He can hear the unsaid words.  _The rest of us have._ But of course they wouldn't let a kid see that, knowing all the details of everything he did. But Willow knows, and she's disgusted. 

"Willow," Sandy says, quietly but managing to sound really, really mad.

Willow abruptly gets up from the table and walks away toward the bathrooms, and Bucky feels himself just starting to _dissolve_. He should never have come here; he's ruined this family's lunch and probably messed up Jonas. No kid should have to hear about the awful, disgusting things Bucky's done.

"Joe, can I talk to you for a second?" Sandy maneuvers her son out of the booth and takes him aside, leaving Bucky with Alex.

Alex is actually really nice to him, and quickly glosses over the moment by asking Bucky little questions about himself. After what just happened, Bucky's a little nervous to answer, but Alex doesn't seem to mind. He just starts talking about his job as a history professor. "I don't teach the kind Joe's into. He likes more recent stuff, where you can really trace the different cultures. He's into battles right now. I teach ancient history, artifacts and ruins. Folklore and the like."

Bucky likes the idea of folklore, though Bucky Bear would prefer the battles. Bucky gets him out of his backpack so he can ask if there are any stories about bears in battle, and Alex smiles and pats him and tells him all about Callisto and Arcas. That's not exactly the story that Bucky Bear wanted, but Bucky likes it. Arcas didn't realize that he was about to hurt his mom, which would have been sad, but then they got to live in the sky together forever.

Alex and the kids must have ordered before Sandy and Bucky got here, because a waitress brings over three plates of food. Alex doesn't bat an eye when Bucky pulls away from his steak dish. He calmly sends his knife back to the kitchen when Bucky mumbles that he can't be around weapons, even though it means he has to poke at his meat with a fork.

When Sandy and Jonas return, Jonas looks a little freaked out, and Bucky knows she's told him. He doesn't know how much, but she's explained about why he doesn't act like a grownup all the time. Jonas is too young, too busy living the life every kid should live, to understand the bad kinds of things people do to each other, and the reasons why. And now Bucky has brought that into his life and it's messing him up really bad.

Except just as he thinks that, Jonas leans forward and says, "Don't worry about Willow. She just won't get a Bucky Barnes autograph. And I will, right?"

Bucky tries to smile. "Okay. Yeah."

"Can I, um..." Jonas hesitates, "You totally don't have to if you don't wanna. But, um, can I maybe see your arm?"

Sandy gives her son a scolding look, but Bucky doesn't mind. He holds it out and tenses it up, letting the plates all move around.

Jonas looks entranced. "Cool!" he exclaims, and Bucky manages a smile.

After putting in his order, he remembers that he actually does need rescue. He sends a text to Natasha, and she promises come get him and bring him home. Jonas still seems a little unsure what to make of him, but he doesn't look mad or disgusted, just a little weirded out. It hurts, but Bucky understands.

Regardless of any confusion, Jonas gets really excited when he finds out Bucky has an  _original_ Bucky Bear. He pulls out his phone and insists on getting a lots of pictures. Bucky Bear likes that a whole lot, although he insists he's not  _an_ original, he's  _the_ original. It's an important difference.

In fact, he gets so busy listening to Alex's stories and talking to Jonas about bear adventures, he completely loses track of time, and is surprised when his phone lights up with a text from Natasha, saying she's waiting outside.

Before he leaves he writes down his email address for Jonas. He doesn't remember a whole lot about history, but he promises if anything comes back to him, he'll send a message.

He thinks about being tied down on a table at Azzano, so far out of his mind that he thought Daddy was just a dream, and decides maybe he'd better check with someone to make sure all his memories are okay for a kid to hear about.

The whole time, Bucky Bear's been aware of Willow lurking over by the bathrooms, just staring. Sandy tries to go over to her and talk to her a bit, and Bucky can't help overhearing a bit with his super-soldier senses. He catches "owe him an apology" and "what he's been through". Willow just keeps shaking her head, and whenever she catches him looking at her, she turns away.

Sandy tries to take him aside in the doorway to apologize, and it helps to hear someone say he didn't deserve that, even if it's hard to believe. But if she's not comfortable being around him, then Bucky would feel really bad if she were forced to come over. So he just thanks Sandy for helping him and getting him lunch, and joins Natasha on the sidewalk. He makes Bucky Bear wave a paw at Jonas through the window as they walk away.

"Feeling okay?" There's no pity in her voice. Still, he flushes a little as he nods. Natasha's really strong and really smart and even though she's seen some of his worst moments and never judged him for them, he can't help looking up to her a lot and kind of wanting to impress her. And instead he had to text her to tell her he panicked from a threat that wasn't there and had to get rescued by someone's mom.

She doesn't mention it, though, only reaches over to squeeze his hand. He's still a little shaky from breaking down, and from probably ruining Jonas's image of the war hero he thought Bucky was, and from Willow not liking him. He never got a full explanation from her. He's not sure he wants to. It seems like a horrible confirmation that the world can see how stained and soiled he is. That they don't want anything to do with him, and how dare he try to force himself upon the public when it'd be better for everyone if he just stayed inside?

But. Sandy was nice to him, and brought him to meet her family. Alex told him stories, and didn't get mad about having to get rid of his knife. Jonas was so excited to get his autograph, and took pictures of Bucky Bear.

"It's always going to be hard, isn't it?" he says slowly to Natasha as she guides him through the crowded streets. He's still a little panicky, but no one gives him a second glance, and if anyone's still around who saw him freak out earlier, they don't say anything. "It's hard to find the, um...the line, I guess."

"What do you mean?"

"The line between what's okay to ask people for and what's too much," he says, figuring out the words as he goes, "when sometimes I feel like just letting me be out in public is too much to ask. Because what if I scare them when I freak out, or they think it's weird, what I'm like now?" Natasha opens her mouth, but all his words are coming out in a rush. "I know everyone says I shouldn't feel bad, and I can ask for what I need and it's okay to be who I am, and all that stuff. But when people act like that around you, or even just being afraid they might, it hurts."

"Think about this, Bucky," Natasha says, glancing over at him, "None of those people actually know what you went through. They might have seen your trial, but that barely covers anything, and it definitely doesn't put them where you were when it was all happening. None of them would have held out any better than you did. If they'd done the things to anyone else that they did to you, none of them would be able to handle it better. They'd be in the same position as you are now. There's always going to be someone who tells you what you should be doing, or what should happen to you now, but they never consider how they'd handle it if they'd been put through the same thing."

It's not like the advice his doctors give him. It's bitter and angry, and from the way she says it, he can tell it's something she's had to say to herself a lot. It does help, though. He would never want anyone to get captured or mindwiped or forced into the grown-up games, but _if_ they were, just _if_ , they would probably do some of the same things Bucky did, and they wouldn't be the same after.

"Still hard to have people look at you like that."

"I'm sure it is. Just remember that they don't know your life like you do. They don't. When you're having a rough time, just remember that you were tortured and abused." She reaches over to squeeze his hand again. "And now you're recovering, and you're doing the best you can."

They walk in silence for a couple minutes, his hand linked with hers. And even though he knows she doesn't like doing anything that could seem vulnerable in public, she doesn't pull away or let go.

"It's still going to be hard," he says after a while, "I want to be outside and find places I can feel like I belong. And I want to feel like I have the right to do that, like my doctors always say. But it's just always gonna be hard, isn't it?"

"Maybe it will," she says, "But you can do it. You keep getting up and trying, even when you're scared to. Because you're brave."

She sounds like she means it, and it lights a glow inside him that he holds onto all the way home.

That evening, he's notified that today's incident did not go unmentioned by the news, as he had hoped. It's happened before, and Bucky hates it, the press turning his struggles and his issues into a spectacle for the world to see. But he gets a bit of a surprise when  JARVIS lets him see a few of the responses. He's mostly not allowed to read things about himself on the Internet.

Some of the commenters offer kindness, sympathy, and even outrage at the breach of his privacy.

Others, however, have a much more personal reaction. They say they find it hard or scary to go out in public because of their own mental health problems. Or they're embarrassed. Or friends and family guilt them because _they're_ embarrassed about being seen with them.

Bucky thinks about his own guilt and how awful it would feel if his family treated him like that. He'd probably never want to go outside ever again. 

Which gives him an idea. Many of the commenters seem to think he's really brave and inspiring. They say it makes them feel better to see someone getting back up after falling so hard. It makes them feel like they can do it, like it's okay to break down, like their own struggles aren't so shameful.

Bucky knows just how that shame feels.

"Daddy?" he says, marking a couple sentences to re-read when he's big, "Can you help me with something? I want to write another statement."

"About this?" Daddy points to a sentence that Bucky just highlighted, "That sounds like it could be really personal, Buck. I'll help you write it if you want, but—are you sure?"

Bucky nods, even though his tummy feels tense at the thought of talking about his weaknesses for the entire world to pick at. He's aware that there are probably plenty of bad comments on this report that JARVIS won't let him see.

He looks back at the section he highlighted for later. Someone with screen name  _hamjamwich_ wrote a pretty long note that he's planning to save for when he has bad days:

_I have extreme anxiety and some related issues from some things that were happening a while back. I don't like to get into it, though. Unlike Barnes, I have the luck to be able to keep what happened private if I want to, which I definitely do. He didn't get to choose, and if the world knew my story then I would likely never leave my house again. I've been told that I should not feel like I have to hide my story. But I can't tell it, and I get to have that choice. The choice I don't have is that sometimes I still freak out and it's very hard. The worst thing about it is the way people treat me when I can't do everything they want me to. Or when I try and have a freakout, and they act like it's just a huge embarrassment to them like I don't feel one hundred times more embarrassed because it's me that it's happening to. I don't like to leave my house much, and when I do I am very careful about where I go and how long I'm out._

_I don't think I'll ever be able to stop being careful, but I'm glad that Bucky Barnes can do it after everything that happened to him. It's weird, but in a way he's like a role model for me, even though he seems to keep getting back up more easily. I found myself rooting for him these past months, because he does keep getting back up and trying that way. He even started a successful campaign to help other people like him. I'd like to be able to do that, though I don't know how I can because I hate sharing my issues so much. The point is that he has been a sort of beacon of hope for me. I freak out and have panic attacks and I break down a lot, and I try to hide it but sometimes I just can't. Going through all that is really hard, but honestly the worst part of it is the way other people treat me because of it. But if someone like Bucky Barnes (who was one of my biggest heroes growing up, let me tell you) can have some of these same problems, then I can feel like it's okay to have my issues. And I haven't felt like it's okay in years. Barnes's story has been an inspiration to me and I am so grateful to him, even if parts of his story have been given to us without his permission, which is something I am not okay with. Despite this invasion of his privacy, I hope that Barnes can keep on getting back up, just like he has been doing._

"I'm sure," he says, squeezing on Daddy's hand.

"All right. But you've had a long day, Buck. You want to work on this right now, or do it later?"

Bucky's already forming ideas in his head for what to write. He really wants to be helpful and strong like the things the people are saying in the comments. And he hates the idea that so many people feel so bad over something they can't help. Something that already makes things so hard to do. 

But Daddy's right, this speech is going to be really hard to write. And the embarrassment from the news article is still fresh and painful. And maybe he doesn't have to be strong or brave _all_ the time.

"We'll do it another day," he decides, " I want to play bears. There's a teddy bear cub who got lost, Daddy."

"Oh, yeah?" Daddy smiles, leading Bucky by the hand, "Well, let's go help that cub feel better. We need to get him home safe, huh?"

Bucky nods, letting his head slide down against Daddy's shoulder. He gets a big hug in response, and he holds on so tight.

Then they go back to Bucky's room to play.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The incident in which Bucky had the police called on him is referenced in [this interlude](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3705493/chapters/8893654).
> 
> The story Alex told Bucky is a very modified, child-friendly version of [this](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Callisto_\(mythology\)).
> 
> It was probably unwise for Sandy to introduce Bucky to her family without consulting them, but I imagined she hadn't anticipated Bucky being unable to control his little mindset (she mistakenly thought of it as something that only happens when he's under stress) and she did try to tell Alex to prepare the kids. She was very well-intentioned and she did help Bucky out of a rough situation, even if she didn't handle it perfectly.


	24. Body Image

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve begins to understand the root of Bucky's body issues and how deep they go.
> 
> He's determined to help Bucky accept himself, and to understand just how very loved he is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a continuation of Chapter 8, where I explored an AU in which Bucky and Steve entered into a romantic relationship. This is set a few months after the events of that chapter. It's kind of an early birthday gift for Lauralot, based on a discussion of Bucky and his body image issues.
> 
> (Kinda NSFW? I guess. Major trigger warning for previous sexual assault and trauma issues stemming from that.)

Bucky never could have imagined the roaring strength of desire, back when he was still with Pierce.

Back then, sex was something he performed as a means to an end. Just as missions were performed so that he could be told he'd done well, sex was something he did to earn Pierce's affection, to be told he was _good_ , to be touched and loved and held. To  _feel._

Then, after he became a child, it was something he endured. For Daddy. Because good little boys never said no. And good little boys, if they _continued_ to be good, got to be hugged and held and didn't get hit with a belt.

He'd never touched himself, when he first returned to the Tower, too confused from the memories that made him feel filthy and sick. He dealt with the occasional case of morning wood with a quick and efficient cold shower, and that was about as much as he had to do with his own dick for a good long while.

He remembered, though, that he'd done some dating and some fooling around back in the day, but only now does he really understand why he'd bothered.

He hadn't meant to have sex with Steve tonight, only to watch a movie with him and maybe talk until they both fell asleep. He was fully ready for bed, his cheek resting on Steve's shoulder halfway through the movie. They'd been trading lazy kisses, Steve's hand in his hair, and Bucky had deepened a kiss without really thinking about it. Steve hadn't protested and somehow that led to Bucky pressing up against him, full-bodied, hand up his shirt to feel his chest, and he can feel his body reacting and driving him closer and closer. The force of wanting had taken him—wanting Steve's hands on him, wanting all kinds of things he couldn't have imagined himself wanting. He has the urge to lick Steve, to have Steve's mouth on him, to have Steve suck him off so hard he can't think of anything but this and here and now. To see Steve's earnest face as he gives it all he's got, to make Bucky feel good, Steve wanting so much to make him feel good.

Is this what normal people feel like when they have sex? Bucky's never really sure if anything he does is normal, but this—he can't believe he's had this desire in him, and gone so long without knowing it. He's still reveling in wonder when it suddenly all goes to hell.

Steve's hands have traveled down his chest and under the waistband of his pants and Bucky's eagerly expecting his touch, only there's padding in between his cock and Steve's hand and a jolt of shock makes Bucky  _freeze._ He's wearing—because he didn't expect to be doing this—he was dressed for bed and  _that,_ the diapers, that doesn't belong with  _this_ because he can still remember the cold voice telling him so long ago how very filthy and sickening he was. And it's his body, still, always his body that did it, he didn't want to be like this but that filth is in him and was always in him. It's his body. His body carries filth, his body is what's sickening, a blatant exposition, a glaring display of his shames.

He shudders, feeling sickened himself now, and manages to gasp out "Bucky Bear."

The next few moments are shaky and lost between the horrible feeling of knowing for certainty that he's been awful, unloveable, undeserving of touch, and Steve trying to call him back from his clouded place in the past.

When he's fully back, Steve's anxiously trying to get him to respond. "Buck? Where'd you go?" he says with palpable relief once Bucky's eyes settle on this.

Bucky just shakes his head, feeling the hot prickling shame rising up. He can't tell Steve where he went, he can't. The proximity of this to that time, then, makes Bucky's stomach lurch. The desire is killed and the erection he'd had is wilting in his pull-up now, but it doesn't matter. There's no way they'll have sex now. Bucky can't, and Steve isn't going to push it.

Sometime this just happens. Bucky knows it's just one more symptom of his PTSD, and he knows logically that it's not his fault. Still, he always, always hates it. The Worths keep trying to tell him he's not a failure for backing out and leaving Steve blueballed, but it's not always easy to believe that when Bucky can still vividly remember Pierce and a time when that sort of behavior  _would_ have meant failure.

Failing Pierce was not allowed.

What he hates the most is that these are remnants of Pierce's fucked-up sex games that he's bringing into Steve's bed. The doctors tell him it's important to understand that his needs are valid and he deserves to be safe and comfortable during sex, and logically he knows that. Still, if he admits it to himself, he only ever safewords out because he knows it'd kill Steve if they had sex when Bucky was fucked up like this, if he found out.

Steve wraps a blanket around him, covering him. "Want me here? Or do you need some space?" He's not acting disappointed; he never does, but sometimes Bucky can't help being scared that he really is, disappointed and frustrated and hiding his feelings for Bucky's sake. He does that enough outside the bedroom.

"Here," Bucky says, trying to pull himself out of the spiral of doubt and self-hatred. It'll only make him feel worse. Steve's here, Steve's got him, he understands and he always says he loves Bucky no matter what.

He wraps his arms tight around Bucky, rocking him slightly. "You okay?"

"Fine," Bucky mutters. "Just—I can't do that right now."

"Okay," Steve guides Bucky's head down to his shoulder and strokes his hair, tucking a strand behind his ear. "I'm glad you told me, Buck. You're safe here. I want you to be safe."

Relief washes over Bucky. He _knows_ that, knows logically that Steve won't push him to fuck when he can't, but his anxieties and logic don't always mesh together too well, and the reassurance always helps. He tucks his face against Steve's neck. "Thank you."

"Of course, Bucky." Steve's hand is stroking through his hair again. "Listen, when you're ready, can we talk about it? You don't have to if you don't want." He always says that, but they've had this discussion before; if Steve knows what set Bucky off this time, he can avoid doing it the next time. Only Bucky doesn't know how Steve can fix this—the strange disconnect he feels from his own body, the patchwork of it through all the eras of his life. Everything that happened to it. How it sickens him, how he feels like its filth will soil Steve. 

"It was when—you touched—you know. The protection." He has a bitch of a time making himself say it. It's a  _diaper_ and he knows that, and there's no clinical terminology that will make it anything else. It's a diaper and he needs it because he can't control himself. "It's—it's my body, Steve," he admits, "Sometimes it just feels  _wrong._ Parts of me are all mixed up and—look, I  _know_ you don't mind the—when I wear that—I know you've told me that. But I can't stop thinking it's—you know, it's  _gross,_ it's not something I want to be thinking about when I'm trying to—and I can't stop it! It's my stupid body! And I just—I hate my body, Steve. There's the other stuff, shit we've talked about—feeling him touching me and all—like I can bring that here." The words don't stop tumbling out until Bucky runs out of breath, and then he buries his face in Steve and trembles.

"Okay," Steve says softly, "Okay. Thank you for telling me that. I'm glad you felt you could share that with me." He's not showing the rage he undoubtedly feels, for Pierce and for HYDRA. He's been talking to the Worths too, about how to help Bucky when he's like this. Being angry and upset won't help; then Bucky can't help becoming guilty and afraid. These are things, the doctors have explained, that they both need to work on.

And to think, Bucky had just been considering whether or not his sex life was becoming more normal. He'd forgotten, temporarily, that he's got therapists helping him with every aspect of it.

Steve's stroking his hair now, taking a deep breath to speak. "Okay, Bucky, I have an idea, and you can always say no if you don't feel comfortable with it. But it's not sex, I promise."

Bucky nods against his shoulder. He's not sure if he'll be able to do anything but huddle up in bed, but "an idea" tends to mean Steve taking over control, which would be a complete and utter relief right now. Bucky trusts Steve. Steve is soft and comforting and listens to Bucky's therapists about how to have a functional sex life with a traumatized ex-assassin. He never gets impatient with any of it. He always loves Bucky, always wants him. 

"I was just thinking that when we started doing this, I was worried about you having flashbacks to what Alex did," Steve says slowly, rubbing Bucky's back, "And you've had a bit of a problem with that. But more often than not, when you've had to safeword out, it was because of a physical problem—some conflict with your head and your body."

"Yeah," Bucky says roughly, deeply relieved that Steve understands. "It's just—it's hard. It's—a sick fucking feeling, Steve, and I _know_ you don't feel that way but I can't help thinking you'll feel it and—it's just. It's a sick feeling, Steve, I feel sick, I don't want to make you sick." Bucky's eyes are wet. He takes a shuddering breath and swipes away tears. There've been a couple times with his arm, and a couple times when he wasn't sure what headspace he was supposed to be in or whose touch he was bringing into Steve's bed. All that touch kept clinging to him all these years like an unshakeable crust of filth.

"All right. And I can't promise I can fix that—it sounds like something we should talk about with the doctors—but I have an idea that I think might help. When you're ready. Right now, we're just going to stay like this." Steve holds Bucky close and Bucky huddles against him, needy and desperate. He'll do whatever Steve says. He needs Steve's help. He wants to be good for Steve.

For a while, they just sit like that, Bucky taking deep breaths at Steve's urging, Steve telling him he's doing well.

Finally, Steve asks him if he's ready to give his idea a try, and Bucky takes a shaky breath and nods. Steve reminds him, once again, that he can use his safe word anytime.

"Now, can you take your clothes off for me, honey? Just trust me." 

Feeling shy and unsure, not knowing what Steve's got in mind, Bucky slowly straightens up in the bed. He meets Steve's eyes for reassurance, and Steve gives him an approving nod. He knows it's fucked up but Steve doesn't care. Steve understands. He needs approval and the assurance that he's still being  _good._ He just—he gets shaky and scared and sometimes all it takes is a little smile from Steve to steady him. He pulls his shirt over his head and fumbles with his pants, hands still shaking a little from earlier.

Almost fully unclothed, he goes to strip the pull-up, the final and most painful indicator of his shame. He's gotten used to discarding it discreetly, burying it in his shed clothes in one quick moment, so mock-casual like that'll fool Steve, so he doesn't have to look at it while he's fucking.

But Steve's hand is on his arm. "Leave that on," he says.

Bucky's heart stops, sure he's misheard. "What?"

"I told you we weren't going to have sex," Steve says. His voice is so gentle and still so firm. "At least, we don't have to. What's going to happen is that we're going to sit together and I'm going to try and make you feel _beautiful_." Startled, Bucky feels a faint flutter in his heart. "Every part of you. Even the parts that are hardest for you to love. The parts you can't always accept. This too." He rests his hand on Bucky's hip, right at the waistband of the pull-up, and Bucky nearly jerks away on instinct. Steve's shushing him, though, closer now, forehead to forehead. "I love you, Bucky."

He can feel Steve's breath against his. He's never been able to feel beautiful or anything like it in one of the brightly-patterned undergarments, he's always kept that as hidden as possible out of a sick and burning instinct. A feeling that defies all logical thought, insisting that maybe Steve will see his weakness for what it is, pathetic and disgusting. How could Bucky want Steve to be looking at that side of him while they're trying to get it on?

But their lips have met softly and Steve's holding him by the hips, Steve's got him in his warm steady hands, and his kiss is still as deep and unbroken as ever. Gradually, Bucky relaxes into him, really kissing him back now. It's just Steve. It's just the two of them here and he can trust Steve to make everything okay. Everything feels shaky, like he's standing on unstable ground, but Steve's got him, has always steadied him before. Steve won't let him fall.

Steve guides him down onto the bed and begins taking off his own clothes, stripping down to his underwear before sliding onto the mattress beside Bucky. Bucky huddles closer to his warmth, feeling more exposed than if he were fully naked. Steve's fingers are trailing up his metal arm, lips on his shoulder. When his fingertips graze skin, Bucky shivers.

"Feel nice?" Steve's lips brush against his neck and Bucky nearly squeaks. "I want to make you feel good."

Bucky manages a nod and ducks his head, face in Steve's hair. This isn't so hard when they're not really looking fully at each others' bodies, just huddled skin-to-skin.

"Good," Steve says, "Now lie back for me."

Bucky allows himself to be guided gently down onto the pillows. Steve's looking carefully over his metal arm and Bucky's riveted, drinking in the feeling of being loved like that, of Steve looking so enraptured from looking at  _him._

"Have I ever told you why I love this?" Steve asks quietly, and he's got Bucky's attention now. Bucky knows Steve's always eager to prove that he loves Bucky just the way he is, but the arm—the arm is cold and heavy and even now, after years away from Pierce, Bucky's still in the habit of trying to hold the big, unyielding thing out of sight. And the scar that joins it to him—now that is a warped and ugly bit of skin.

Steve's always kissed it like he can heal it with his tongue and Bucky can accept that he wants to make him feel loved no matter what his mismatched body looks like. But to love it? To love the icy and shining reminder of everything that was done to him on lab tables and in bunkers, the sheer ugliness of everything that happened there?

Bucky can only stare.

"It shows that you survived," Steve says. his voice so soft. "They tried to turn you into—a thing. A machine. But here..." his voice drops to a whisper as he traces over the rough scar joining metal to flesh, and Bucky shivers more intensely than ever, hooked on his words. "...and here." Steve pokes at a gap in the plating and the plates contract. The sensation is weird, almost like being tickled, and he can't help tensing up the arm. "It's human. Because _you_ make it human, Bucky. You survived, important parts of you survived all of what they did. And back when we met your family you let the kids hang on it and fiddle with it because they were curious. You shaped it to you, not the other way around. I know that's not how it feels sometimes. But it's what I see when I look at it up close."

Bucky can feel, faintly, the warmth of Steve's hands against the cold of the metal. He can remember, now, waking up with it. It's a point of pride that his first act with the thing, as soon as it was fully functional, was to try and choke-lift Zola.  Still trying, still fighting them then, even after everything. How unfortunate that he didn't manage to finish off the doctor right there. 

He can remember, though, so many acts of violence carried out with this arm. Steve would say it wasn't him, it wasn't his choice. Steve doesn't see Bucky or his arm as bad or evil—or wrong, too cold and stiff, as Pierce had felt, a break in the illusion he'd cast over them both. Steve doesn't need an illusion. Steve wants Bucky just as he is.

Bucky sighs and lets his head slide down to Steve's shoulder and Steve strokes his hair. "I love this too," he presses a kiss into the top of Bucky's head. "So soft." Another kiss, against his ear this time, making him squirm a little. He can't help smiling, hiding behind his hair, but Steve catches his chin and cups his cheek, gently bringing Bucky's face up to meet his gaze. His eyes are so intense and so sincere and there's a fluttery feeling in his chest.

"I love your face," Steve whispers, "I love your eyes. So pretty and blue. I love your nose." He leans forward, kissing it, and it's such a silly and sincere and Steve thing to do, the fluttery feeling encompasses Bucky's entire body. Then Steve reaches up and tweaks his nose, and Bucky protests. "I'm not  _five,_ Steve."

"Yeah, but I still love teasing you." Steve kisses his cheeks and lightly tickles his ribs. "And I love that you're so cute when I do it. Look at you, all sulky. Come here." He cups the back of Bucky's head and pulls him in for a deep, warm kiss. His tongue gently presses against the part in Bucky's lips and he licks a little, kissing without demanding, sucking lightly on his upper lip before backing up to nuzzle nose-to-nose. "I love your mouth, Buck. You have the prettiest lips."

Bucky's definitely sulking again.  _"Pretty?"_

Steve smiles at him again, and leans back in for another kiss. Bucky melts back into it all too easily. He can't stay mad at Steve and Steve knows it.

Steve pulls back, tracing Bucky's chin, and ducks down to plant slow kisses all over Bucky's body. "I love you here," he whispers between kisses, mouthing at Bucky's neck and Bucky can feel his dick stir a bit between his legs. He makes a little noise as Steve sucks just above his shoulder. "I love you here, and here," he whispers, and he's kissing each side of Bucky's chest as if he's got tits. A kiss lands on Bucky's nipple and he hisses in a breath, definitely getting hard now, his dick starting to press against his pull-up. He squirms when he realizes, his face flushed and hot. He can't imagine how ridiculous he'll look with a raging hard-on straining against the front of his Hulk-festooned diaper. 

"Hey, hey, it's okay," Steve says softly, guessing exactly what's got Bucky feeling scared and upset. He knows Bucky way too well, knows exactly what the problem is. He's got Bucky by the shoulders now. "Look at me. Look at me."

Hot with shame and struggling to meet his eye, Bucky eventually manages it. He knows he'll feel better when he does. Steve always makes him feel better about this. But he still can't help but feel that he doesn't deserve to, that he's pathetic and he should know it and—

"It's just me, Bucky," Steve says softly, squeezing Bucky's shoulders. He's said this so many times before, and the familiar warm comfort washes over him. It's just Steve here and he's safe with this, this hot mass of shame Bucky still carries now lifted and held between them. He can trust Steve with it; there's no laughter in Steve's eyes, only warmth and a very characteristic sincerity, a fierce unwavering love. A fierce love for  _Bucky,_ regardless of his many, many shames.

"We'll get to there—I know, Buck, I know," he adds quickly when Bucky lets out a shuddery sigh. "Shh, my lamb, I know it's hard. Just let me help. You deserve to feel loved. And I do love you, all of you. Every part. Yeah, this too." He pats Bucky's hip, over the waistband of his pull-up. "I love the parts of you that came through from before the war, and that parts of you that got a little hurt along the way. I wish it didn't hurt you so much. I wish you didn't have to struggle, my sweet lamb. You never deserved that."

His voice is like a river swollen from heavy rain, strengthened and unstoppable, flowing forth without hesitation where he once might have found certain things more difficult to say aloud. "But I do love those parts of you because it means you survived and you're safe now. You're back with me. And we learned to work with the parts of each other that were different, didn't we? You're safe and you're healing. I was so afraid they'd made it so you could never get better, but you did—you are getting better, every day. And I love the Bucky who made it through on the other side with me. Not the Bucky I know you still sometimes feel like you ought to be. I love the Bucky you are, problems and all. This too." He pats the front of Bucky's diaper, where his erection is still pushing against the padding, and Bucky gasps and squirms from the stimulation even as his face goes hot. "Yeah, Buck. This too."

In the back of his mind he thinks of smirking, asking Sam's oft-repeated line about whether that was off the top of his head or if he wrote it down. But there's a warm sort of spell he doesn't want to break. He wants to spend the rest of the night basking in Steve's tender praise, the same praise he'd have teased him for in any other state of mind. He wants to be told how good he is, how loved. He's kissing almost desperately at Steve's neck now, head back on his shoulder, hoping and craving for more.

He gets it, Steve's lips on his ear, fingers trailing over his stomach and raising goosebumps on his skin. "I love this part of you. I love kissing you here. Love holding you here." And he does, his arms warm and strong around Bucky's midriff and pulling him in and he's all Bucky needs and he finds himself rising up over Steve's lap, holding himself aloft there while Steve's big hands roam over his back and hips, squeezing the backs of his thighs, rubbing his calves and telling him how beautiful he is, how glad Steve is to have him here and hold him close, to touch him. He's squeezing on Bucky's padded ass now and Bucky doesn't even care anymore, he finds himself drawn forward by the hips by some powerful force, tensing his body and wavering his breath, wanting to get himself closer to Steve. He feels like he could melt himself into Steve and never let him go. Steve believes he's good. Steve sees a beautiful man when he looks at Bucky, somehow Steve sees beauty and wants to touch him and Bucky never, ever wants to leave the warm fluttery bubble encompassing them both, cast by Steve's mellifluous stream of soft words.

"There's my Bucky," Steve's cupping his head again, they're nose-to-nose, eyes locked together. "So brave and caring and loving. So sweet and beautiful, my lamb. So good. I see you, you've always been so good—"

The wave of warmth from this last bit of praise hits Bucky like a shock and he tenses harder than ever, gasping. His thighs shake and he can feel a hot stickiness forming as he comes hard and sudden in his pull-up. And it jolts him back to himself and he's red from it even as instinct drives him to grind into it, drawing out his orgasm—he's come, untouched, from being called beautiful, from being _good_ \- but he's wanted it for so much longer than he ever even realized, and he whimpers through clenched teeth with the full force of realization, of pure sweet relief. Steve's shushing him, holding Bucky's thighs again, steadying him as he writhes through the aftershocks of his orgasm. "It's okay. I've got you, Bucky. It's okay, you're okay, you're so good, so, so good." 

When the feeling finally fades away, Bucky slumps, quivering, into Steve's lap, clinging tightly to him, blushing at the feeling of the sticky mess in his cartoon pull-up, an incongruous thing, but it's okay because it's just Steve here. Steve understands every part of him and how each part works around another. Steve sees him, loves him. Bucky whimpers again and holds on tight, burying his face in Steve's neck. Steve's asking him if he's okay, rubbing his back in slow, gentle strokes.

"M'okay, I'm good, Steve, I'm so good, please—just hold me. Hold me," Bucky manages, and Steve does, rocking him and kissing his hair, for as long as Bucky needs. His arms are around Bucky, and then after a while his legs, like Steve's trying to embrace Bucky's entire being all at once and Bucky wants that, wants it forever. "I love you, Steve," he whispers, "I love you, thank you, I love you so much."

Later, sitting on the shower floor, he comes back to himself. A little less overwhelmed, Steve washing the come off of both of them, he reddens a bit as he becomes more grounded. He sees the same red rising on Steve's cheeks, though, likely as he remembers some of the stuff he spouted out during his whole impassioned reverie. They're bonded even more strongly than before by this thing that's just happened, sharing in the sheepish memory of such deeply intimate revelations uttered in the heat of the moment. 

Bucky can't be a failure at love if he can be a part of that intimacy. Crucial to it, even. It's something worthy of cradling in their memories forever, and he helped to create it.

He takes Steve's hand and guides it to his face, resting his cheek there for a time. Their eyes meet in silent understanding and they exchange little smiles, sweet whispers. After, Steve helps him step into a new pull-up and there's no shame in it now. When he's alone there may be, but not with Steve, not when he can see himself, now, through Steve's eyes. Under the covers they huddle together as JARVIS dims the lights, their entwined fingers saying all that needs to be said.

Bucky revels anew in his body, relishing the new way he sees his own self as though with the fresh eyes of an infant. He's still marveling at himself, the way he can feel, the Steve can see him, as he drifts off into a deep and encompassing sleep.


End file.
